Here Be Monsters I: Wizard's Lament
by Dzeytoun
Summary: Albus Dumbledore has lived a very long time. But the summer following Harry's fifth year will see events to change his life forever.
1. Waking the Monster

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating: PG 13

Categories: Angst/Drama

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter One: Waking the Monster

Saturday, 29 June 1996 

_0942 GMT_

The soft chime resounds through my sitting room, summoning me from my late breakfast.  I take another sip of orange juice and sigh as the chime echoes again.  Fawkes trills softly.

"Yes, Fawkes, I heard it.  Let's go and here what Severus has to say."

Fawkes glides to my shoulder, trilling again, this time with an unmistakeable undertone of worry.  I smile and stroke his back soothingly.  Fawkes, like the rest of us, has not had an easy time of it these last few weeks.  Being hit with a Killing Curse is an upsetting experience, even for a phoenix.  Still it is remarkable how fast Fawkes regenerates.  He has already regrown much of his plumage.

Having said that, it is true that I am moving more slowly than usual.  I was up very late last night, and have slept much later this morning than is my wont.  I am usually up much earlier, even on Leavetaking Day when the students are much too busy trying to get packed and down to the train to cause much trouble (and the staff is much to glad for a coming vacation to cause much trouble either).

I wish it was age that slows me this morning, but it is not.  It is fear.  Fear and sorrow for those I love so very much.  And dread of the coming confrontation.  I have had to face, and eat, many of my mistakes these past days, and I have found them to taste bitter.  I fear that I have more draughts of wormwood yet to swallow in the next hour or so.

I enter my office, which is still strangely bare.  Fawkes flies to his perch while I use a small hammer to ring an answering chime that will be heard in the castle's dungeons.  The chimes are one of the few things that survived Harry's recent frenzy.  I have a largish closet full of debris yet to go through.

Waiting for my morning guest to arrive I walk to a window and stare out.  The Hogwarts Express will have left some time ago.  Harry will be on board thinking of ... what?  He was not at the Farewell Feast, and that was both expected and deeply troubling.  He will be in mourning for Sirius, still fuming at himself, at Voldemort, at sundry other persons and circumstances, and at me.  Will he be afraid?  Is he worried that I will be angry, that I will punish him for his display of rage?

Probably not.  He is far to deep in turmoil to worry about such things.  I dare say at the moment he would spit in my eye if I were to send him to Azkaban, even if the Dementors were still on duty.

_Do not fear Harry.  Do not be afraid my shining prince.  I will never punish you.  Not if you had laid hands on me as __I richly deserved.  Not if you had screamed unforgivable curses at me for hours on end.  I will never, ever punish my darling Harry._

//But you are punishing him, Professor.//

Tom Riddle's voice.  The memory of him is my faithful tormentor, my ever-ready scourge.

//You are sending him back to the muggles, are you not?  And in such a wounded state!  I daresay they will find him to be rare sport indeed.//

Anger wells within me, but not at Tom.  At myself.  I am to blame for this horror.  It is my doing that Harry's life is a weal of injustice and pain.

_They will not make sport of him this summer._

I say that as forcefully as I can, and try desperately to believe it.  I have "suggested" to the members of the Order that they confront the Dursley's about their treatment of Harry.  If they are forceful enough....

//But I thought you could not interfere Professor.  I thought that would compromise the magic that protects him at Privet Drive.//  Tom's laughter is undergird by a sound that has haunted me for fourteen years, but has waxed again of late.  The sound of an infant crying in a cupboard.

I squeeze my eyes closed as hot tears of guilt and pain roll down my face.  Oh, to have made another choice so long ago!  Did I have another choice?

We must take the chance.  Harry is in far too delicate a condition.  And we will have him out, before long.

//Of course you will.  You only left him in the cupboard ten years.//

I want to scream, to rage, to sob.  But I will not allow myself that release.  Any such action might lessen the pain.  And I richly deserve every pang I feel.

//You should have let him stay here a while.  Why didn't you give him a ticket to this morning's show?  You sat back while Umbridge made him cut his hand open.  This least you could do is give him the courtesy of some recompense.//

I don't answer Tom on that one, for the horrible reason that he is absolutely right.  And when Tom Riddle is right, affairs have come to a dark and dreadful nexus indeed.

"You know Fawkes," I say softly, "maybe we should have let Harry stay for a few days more and go down by floo.  He could have watched the two people he hates most in Hogwarts have a go at each other no holds barred."

That is a mistake.  At the mention of Harry's name Fawkes becomes agitated, half spreading his wings and hopping excitedly from one foot to the other, his neck craned expectantly toward the door.  Fawkes is a spectacularly intelligent creature, much smarter than many wizards I could name, but a Burning always leaves his mind clouded and ... chicklike, for many days afterward.  He clearly misunderstood me and thinks that Harry is about to come up the stairs.

I walk over to his perch and soothe him gently.  "No Fawkes, he won't be coming today."   

Fawkes trills sadly and looks at me while I shake my head.  As I expected tears are streaming down from his eyes over his beak.  But they are not tears of sadness, for Fawkes is not as humans are.  A phoenix does not weep for grief or anger or fear or pity, but for love.  Their tears are one of the most powerful and swift acting healing agents known to wizardkind.

Poor Fawkes.  He loves Harry as well as I do – or probably better, in that he has no shadow of guilt over his heart.  Harry's recent rage upset him deeply, all the more so in that his mind is still so childlike.  I think he believes that Harry must be mortally wounded to have been screaming so.  Every time somebody mentions the boy's name, Fawkes immediately starts looking around for him with eyes streaming precious magical tears, seeking desperately to find him so he can heal whatever hurt was causing Harry's agony.  

Noble creature.  If only it was that simple.  But even your tears, Fawkes, cannot heal the wounds that Harry bears.

Despite my own resolve, a tear starts to wind its way down my own face.

I soft bell warns me that someone has spoken the password below.  I quickly wipe my face and retreat to my desk, assuming a seated position just as Severus enters.

He is sneering, as usual.

From his perch Fawkes hisses in disappointment.

Severus pauses in mid stride, cocking one eyebrow and looking with disdain at my phoenix who usually has impeccable manners.  The cold glare from his eye has withered many a bravehearted Gryffindor into a shivering lump.

Fawkes makes a deep hawking noise like he is about to spit something large and messy.  In all our years together I have never heard him make anything like it before.

Severus, Severus, why must you INSIST on bringing such scorn down on your own head.  

//He would hardly be an effective agent if he didn't, now would he Professor?  It isn't like ... I ... am known for favoring warm personalities and good conversationalists.//

I do so HATE it when Tom is right.

"Please sit down Severus," I say, hoping to cut off Fawkes before he actually does something embarrassing.

Snape gives me a half bow by way of acknowledgement and sinks into the chair opposite me.  His movements have their usual arrogant fluidity, but as he leans back I see that the lines in his face are worn deep, and the shadows in his eyes speak of exhaustion almost too strong to withstand.

My throat tightens in pity.  Severus has burdens to bear that none but I can appreciate, because none but I fully understand them.  He is engaged in a deadly game, trying to play mongoose to the most evil, clever serpent in all of Europe – and quite probably all the world.

//Why thank you Professor.//

_Oh do SHUT UP Tom!!_

But I know Tom will not stay quiet for long.  He is the manifestation of my long abused conscience, and what I am about to do this morning will give him plenty on which to comment.

Snape looks around with a slight frown.  I know he is puzzled.  Usually we meet in much friendlier surroundings – my sitting room for instance, over tea.

All purposes will be revealed, never fear.

"How are you holding up, Severus?"

"I will manage, thank you, Headmaster."

Severus you are a fool.  

"Are you sure?  It has been a very difficult time for everyone."

Snape sneers again.  How dare I insinuate that anything that happens at Hogwarts – be it Umbridge, Voldemort's mechanations, or keeping an eye on a bunch of Deatheaters' children – could ever cause strain for Severus Snape!

"I have faced worse stress before, Headmaster."

That is such a classic answer coming from Severus!  With one sentence he announces his own strength, reminds me of his suffering, belittles everyone else's accomplishments, and tries to close the door on further inquiry.

//The man is indeed a tribute to Slytherin.//

Sigh.  This does seem like your day for being right, Tom.

"Very well then, give me your report."

You wish to be treated with detachment, even with harshness.  Oh Severus!  Your life has been filled with so much pain it is the only thing you can respond to effectively!

The report is not particularly illuminating.  In the wake of the recent catastrophe at the Ministry of Magic...

SIRIUS!!

...and he exposure of his return, Voldemort had summoned his chief minions for a strategy session ... or more exactly a general dispensation of pain followed by a detailing of specific punishments.  

I interrupt the flow of the report.

"Were you included in this general chastisement Severus?"

"Yes Headmaster.  It was uncomfortable.  However, it was considerably less than the Cruciatus Curse, which frankly I was expecting."

Severus, why?  Why do you say such horrible things with such a calm look, even in your eyes?  Have I done this to you?

//No Professor.  You ruined your precious Harry.  Others ruined Snape here – starting with his own family, of course.//

Yes, his own family.  We always come back to that, don't we?  Severus growing up in an abusive hell...

Harry whimpering in a closet...

Tom Riddle in an orphanage.

Sometimes the thought of Arthur and Molly Weasley is the only thing that keeps me from favoring the outlawing of childhood.  Young wizards and witches should just skip to the age of 11 when they can come to school.

//And live under the care of the infallible Dumbledore?//

Why do I do this to myself?

Because I deserve it.

Snape is continuing.  Frankly there is not much else to the story.  Voldemort's inner circle is, for the moment, in confusion while their master broods over his next move.  I don't find that as comforting as one might think.  The Dark Lord is never without two plans in the shadow of a third.

"Thank you Severus."

I really mean that.  I have marvelled at the man's bravery, and his skill, for years.  He would have made a splendid Gryffindor if not....

//If not for the fact that he is such a heartless, selfish, bitter, crabby, manipulative, serpent?//

If not for the fact that he was so damaged so young that his good qualities never got a chance to truly flower.

//And you deny that he is a heartless, selfish, bitter, crabby, manipulative, serpent?//  Tom's voice is positively gleeful.

No.

Snape is fiddling with the fringe of his robe in a gesture I have learned to dread.  It is his signal of false reluctance.  He has something he wants to say but he doesn't want to seem like he wants to say it.

"Is there something else to report, Severus."

"Yes, Professor Dumbledore, there is, and it is most distressing."

Judging by the gleam in his eye I would have said quite the opposite.  But I have a cold feeling in my bowels that says I will find his news distressing, whatever his view of the matter.

"Well, it won't be made better by delay Severus.  Say whatever you feel needs to be said."

Snape steeples his fingers and purses his lips.

Severus, you are enjoying this entirely too much.  Something horrible has happened.

"You recall what I said about Bellatrix Lestrange, Professor Dumbledore?"

Since it was less than five minutes ago I would be a nincompoop indeed if I didn't.

"Yes, Severus."

"Well, when she was relating the events of her battle in the Ministry..."  

Snape pauses.  I swear he looks like he wants to lick his lips.

"Yes, Severus?"  

"It seems that in their encounter just before the Dark Lord's arrival, young Mr. Potter attempted to attack her with the Cruciatus Curse."

My bowels were right.  I put my head down and cover my face with my hands, not wanting to let Snape see the pain in my eyes.  I take in a breath and it feels like I'm breathing magma.

//Proud of your student, Professor?  Not up to my record, quite.  But still respectable.//

HARRY, I'M SO SORRY!!!!

I take two more deep, painful breaths.  How can the poor, tortured child stand it?  How will any of us ever endure it?  

It takes all the discipline of more than a century to gather my thoughts back into a logical pattern and focus them on Severus' tale.  Even then I feel as if my head will split from the pressure of the blood I feel roaring in every vessel.  

Harry lifting his wand, his face twisted in hate.  His sweet voice shouting that vile word, "CRUCIO."  

A year ago, a month ago, even two weeks ago, I would not have believed it.  I would have railed at anyone who dared suggest such a thing.  But that was before Sirius Black died.  That was before I realized how badly I had hurt Harry with my old man's miscalculations.  

When Harry faced me in this office, shaking with rage, I would not have been surprised had he hurled the Cruciatus Curse at me.

Wait a moment.

"He attempted it you say," I lift my head and try very hard to keep my features bland, "I take it he did not succeed."

Snape frowns.  Reluctantly he nods.  "That is true.  LeStrange said he did not have a strong enough will to properly perform the curse."

I have no doubt she said something of the sort, but I also have no doubt that the truth is quite something else.  Joy, hope, and love all well up within me so strongly it is a wonder I do not jump to my feet and twirl with glee.  Harry has willpower and to spare.  There is only one reason he would have failed in the Cruciatus Curse.

He did not have enough hate.

Despite everything, despite the Dursleys, Voldemort, Umbridge – despite my own decisions that have brought so much ruin, my Harry does not have enough hate in him to enjoy the suffering of the woman who had just killed the only parent he ever knew.

MY GLORY.  MY MIRACLE.

 To be blessed with such a person is worth more than all the wands of all the wizards in this poor suffering world.

Not that Severus would agree.  Even now he begins to sneer again, watching me expectantly.

"Yes, Professor Snape?"

//Here we go.  The fun begins.//

Think about Harry and shut up Tom.

"I was wondering, Headmaster, what you plan to do."

"Do?"  I blink in my best look of blank incomprehension.

//Oh really Albus you're over doing it.//

"What do you plan to do about Mr. Potter's actions?"  He flushes red slightly, as I knew he would.

//Well maybe you aren't over doing it.//

People often call me manipulative.  In fact I HATE manipulating others.  It is the thing that rends my heart and burns my stomach – the thing that, as I get older, makes me resort ever more frequently to the milder of the sleeping potions (and wouldn't a lot of people be shocked to know about that – Albus Dumbledore with nightmares!  A sign of the Apocalypse!).

I only resort to stratagems when I must.  Yet it seems that life takes a perverse satisfaction in forcing me to do things I hate.

//And in forcing other people to pay for them.//

SHUT UP!

I manipulate Fudge and the Ministry because they are dangerous fools who refuse to see beyond their noses.

I manipulate the Houses to try to keep some semblance of peace and tranquillity, blood off the Great Hall floor and screaming parents out of the Hogwarts grounds.

I manipulate Harry because I love him so much that the very thought of .... no, that wound is too deep.

And I manipulate Severus because I desperately don't want him to do what I think his nature is inevitably going to lead him to do today.  

But in truth I am not manipulating Severus.  I am just giving him every chance I can to avoid the worst.

Well, Professor Snape must have his answer I suppose.  But I will give him one more chance.

"What would you suggest I do Severus?  We are at war and he had just lost his godfather.  Shall we send him to Azkaban for the rest of his life?"

As I feared, Snape's sneer only grows wider.  "No.  I don't suppose that would do for our freshly rehabilitated savior would it?  Although," he smiles vindictively, "if the dementors had not left a longish stay in their care would likely improve his attitude, and help deflate that ego of his."

I have recently told Harry that old men sometimes forget that some hurts go too deep for the healing.  Do old men also forget the depth of vicious pettiness those hurts bring forth?  Am I really that old?  Is that why, even after knowing Severus since his student days and understanding only too well the causes of his bitterness, I have to consciously lock my jaws to keep my mouth from sagging open at that remark?

//No Professor, you never understood this.  And that is why you failed so singularly to understand me nearly sixty years ago.//

I am saved from making an immediate reply when a flash of color darts across my desk.  Fawkes has launched himself from his perch and landed on the outer edge of the heavy wooden table, his talons gouging scars in veneer that has been spelled for protection against anything less powerful than an ax blow.  He issues a sharp set of screeching notes that cause Severus to rear back in surprise.  I don't blame the potions master as I almost jump myself.  I have almost forgotten what an angry phoenix sounds like.  And Fawkes is definitely angry, no let us say furious. His wings are three-quarters spread in attack position, his claws flex to dig deeper into the abused wood of my desk, and his beak, pointed directly at Snape's prominent nose, snaps warningly.

Evidently Fawkes understands more than I was giving him credit for.  The words "Potter," "Azkaban," and "Dementors," have triggered memories and a protective response.  

"Here Fawkes," I say quietly.

The phoenix obeys somewhat grumpily, giving several farewell snaps in Snape's direction before strutting haughtily across the desk to settle in front of me and be stroked soothingly.  He still eyes Severus malevolently, occasionally giving out one of the strange, non-avian hissing sounds only a phoenix can make – rather like cold water suddenly splashing on heated metal.

"Please accept my apologies Severus," I say, struggling with all my might to keep my facial muscles under control.  After all of the stress and pain of the last few days I am sorely tempted to collapse into laughter.  "Fawkes is not himself.  It always takes him a while to recover from a Burning."

"Indeed," Snape arches his head disdainfully, "I thought Mr. Potter had found himself another follower."

You really MUST dig the wounds deeper, musn't you.

Fawkes hisses again.  Luckily, Snape does not know how truthful his statement was.

"As I was asking Headmaster..."

"Nothing."

Snape blinks.  Once.  Twice.  Thrice.

"Excuse me?"

Suddenly I am very, very tired.  Tired of this conversation.  Tired of this meaninglessly game of polite babble.  Tired already of this day that has just started.  

I have to carry the weight of Hogwarts, Britain, Harry Potter, and probably the world around with me all the time.  Is it too much to ask of you that you understand the English language without making me repeat myself?

"Nothing Severus.  That is the answer to your question."

Blinking again.  One.  Two..... He gets up to eight this time.

"You mean you are...."

"Nothing."  And now my voice has grown cold and I know I am much too tired to be doing this, much to tired to be having this conversation now.  And especially too tired and too much in pain to be dealing with Severus.

Snape looks like his is going to explode.  He grips the arms of his chair and leans forward, hissing in a fairly good imitation of Fawkes.

"You don't care do you?"  His eyes have narrowed and I can tell that he is choking out the words with great difficulty.  "Precious Potter can do anything he wants can't he?  He could kill somebody in the middle of the Great Hall and you would just tell us to clean it up while you went to tuck him in for the night!"

My hands continue to massage Fawkes as Snape goes through his tirade.  The phoenix no longer seems angry, but looks at the potions master almost sadly.

Severus, how could I ever explain to you?

How indeed?  I realize now that one of the tragedies of Severus's life is his inability to understand true emotion.  He exists in a world of simplistic, violent, fierce passions – a world of all or nothing.  He does not understand the rest of us, those poor souls who must go through life with hearts so deeply divided that we do not know how we will survive the day, much less the rest of our lives.

But even more importantly, he will never understand the danger he is in.  It is my fault.  I must be the wise, calm headmaster.  It is what is needed by the students, the staff, the parents, the government.  In time people come to believe such facades,  

In time even I believed it.  

And then one day I, poor fool, looked upon a dark haired child with a scarred forehead and sad eyes like haunted emeralds, and was lost.  And when I found that the child had a soul imbued with a power greater than the strongest magic, and a smile before which all futures and schemes and plans and calculations became only worthless shadows, I knew that my wisdom was a so often only parlor tricks of rhetoric, my calm nothing more than a technique for keeping adolescents off-balance.

Yes, Snape will not comprehend that when he talks of Harry Potter he his approaching a land on which he has never tred, a land very different than the calm realm of the kindly, wise schoolmaster.  He does not realize, because his poor, abused, truncated comprehension cannot go that far, that he walks on the edge of charted waters.  Just beyond, in the place where he has just recklessly put his foot, are things he never knew existed.  The muggle mapmakers had a way of designating such places, a warning they placed on the margins of their charts.

Traveler Be Ye Warned.  Here Be Monsters.

Severus, you are sailing on the boundaries of my heart, and you do not have any idea how close you are to meeting dangers you never dreamed could be.

"It is not fair, is it, Severus."  My voice is soft, because it has to be to make it past the lump of emotion knotting in my throat.

"I believe that is what I was just saying, Professor Dumbledore."

"No Severus, I'm talking about you."

Images.  So many images in my mind.  

An eleven year old boy in the summer before his sorting, trying to sink through the floor of the headmaster's office while his father demands to know the policies Hogwarts has in place to "keep the unwanted elements under control."  His mother stares sightlessly out the window, ignoring husband and child.

A teenager, tormented by pranks initiated almost always by Sirius Black and James Potter, already too damaged to develop the resilience and sense of humor with which to defend himself.

An older Severus, weeping in my arms in that terrible, terrible day when he discovered, much too late, how warped and wrong his decisions had been.

Myself, giving Cornelius Fudge's predecessor bland lies as I defended my choice for a new potions master.

The brave endurance on the face of a man who entered the Dark Lord's presence, again and again, with treachery in his heart.

The face of a man whose heart had been split asunder, as Severus first looked upon the face of Harry Potter come to Hogwarts.

The face of a man determined to face his worst horror without a whimper, the night Voldemort returned.

"No it is not fair," I repeated softly.  "James Potter did not sink the roots of your pain, but he harvested the fruit.  Oh yes, he had many a laugh out of a misery he was far too shallow to comprehend.  And in the end, he helped to sink roots of a deeper, much deeper, wound yet." 

I rise and walk over to Severus, placing Fawkes on his perch as I pass.  Now I regret the arrangement I have chosen, for I must stand awkwardly to one side, my hand on his shoulder.

"Harry is a living essence of pain for you Severus.  He is the worst manifestation of your hearts worst nightmare, given form.  And you must watch as, like James, he stands in a light you have never known."

A deep silence settles over my office.  Fawkes trills plaintively at the sound of Harry's name, but otherwise there is no sound.  Finally Severus drops his head into his hands.

//He's right you know, you do love Harry Potter far too much.  Weren't you just thinking a while ago how you would never punish him.//

Yes.  Yes I love him far too much.  And I have hurt him far too much.

//So you love him to make up for hurting him?//

No.  In that I love him I now know agony for hurting him.

//So Severus is right, isn't he.//

Is he?  It is true I let Harry get away with things no other students in the history of Hogwarts would have been allowed.  Case in point the closet of debris I have yet to sort.  Had it been any other student in the last thousand years, they would now be heading home expelled.

But Harry is a special case.

Oh yes.  He is a special case by definition.  But I have been lying to myself.  I have said that I allow Harry his freedoms and privileges because they are necessary for him to learn the hard, quick lessons he must learn to meet his destiny.  I have reminded myself time and again that these freedoms are more than balanced by the pain he has endured and continues to endure.  All this is true.

It is also all lies.

I let Harry get away with yelling at me because I love him.  I let him wander around he castle with an invisibility cloak because I love him.  I wanted to make him a prefect because I love him.  I didn't make him a prefect because I love him.  Four years ago, when I gave the Gryffindors 170 points at the Leavetaking Feast and upended the Slytherins, yes, I ground the pride of Slytherin House into the dust so that my beloved Harry would smile.

But would I really let him get away with murder?

//What do you plan to do when he murders...me.// Tom's voice is sarcastic as always.  //Spank him and send him to be without supper?//

Point well taken.

"I spoke too hastily, Severus," I say.  I'm babbling.  Albus Dumbledore, babbling?  Yes.  Actually, I babble often.  It's just that I've grown adept at covering up when I'm panicked.  "Of course I will do something about Harry's use of the Cruciatus Curse."

Severus lifts his head from his hands and looks at me darkly.

"And what will his punishment be?"

I withdraw my hand reluctantly and return to my chair.  

"I know this is extremely difficult, Severus.  But try to look at it as it happened.  He was in the midst of a battle.  He had just lost the closest thing to a parent he had ever known.  He was facing the witch who killed that parent.  So he lashed out in anger and pain."

"Would I have done so?  Would you?  I do not know.  Would a trained Auror have acted the same way?  Almost certainly not."

"But it is not you or me or a trained Auror or any adult wizard about whom we are speaking.  It is a fifteen year old boy under unendurable stress."

Severus maintains his dark look, folding his hands again.  He looks so, so very tired.  When this is over, I think I will order him to see Poppy for an examination.

"So, you plan to pat him on the head and give him some chocolate frogs?" he asks quietly, bitterly.

Deep, deep within me, in a place within my heart that has been quiet sense time almost out of mind, something stirs.

My hand rises before I can consciously realize what is happening.  In a good imitation of Harry, I bring my fist slamming down on my desk, sending bright lances of pain up my not-so-young arm.

"I plan," I say with surprising calm, "to deal appropriately with the situation.  I agree that it must be addressed."

"So you are going to, TALK with the boy, is that it?"  Severus is sitting bolt upright in surprise.  But sparkles of rage are glittering in his eyes, and his voice is almost a snarl.

"Yes, I will talk with him.  Certainly I will talk with him.  As far as punishing him, as I gather you are suggesting, Professor Snape," I take a very deep breath, "I do not think that is appropriate."

"Not appropriate?"  He seems to be chewing on the words, testing their flavor.

"That is correct, Severus," I breathe deeply and force my voice to sound jovial.  Usually I am able to do that without a particular effort.  Now, though, I find it exceptionally difficult.  

The thing awakened in my heart stirs, then settles down restlessly.

"I thank you very much for pointing this situation out," I continue.  I'm babbling again and this time I SOUND like I'm babbling.  Very bad.  "I will speak with Minerva about it.  I am sure she would want to know.  Perhaps both of us should speak with him together.  In any case, we shall have to think carefully.  This is such a complicated situation."

I sound like a dithering old fool.

"Think carefully?"  Severus is glaring and the sparkles of rage are growing.

"Yes.  We have time.  The boy will be safely at Privet Drive for a couple of weeks, anyway."  Desperation drives my to do something truly stupid in an attempt to head off disaster.  Opening a drawer I grab an ever-handy bag and offer it to Severus.  "Would you like a lemon drop?"

"Are you sure he won't practice on his aunt and uncle?"  Severus hisses.

I would not blame him for that, either.

"I am sure we can trust Mr. Potter that far."  I take a lemon drop myself.  It does not calm me however.  It just manages to make my mouth sticky.  A very bad sign.

Severus stands and  looks around at the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses lining my office.  They have all been listening while making bad attempts to look like they aren't.  Most of them are wearing grim expressions.  Like Fawkes, they were deeply upset by Harry's display, and haven't yet recovered.  Snape finds who he is looking for.

"What do you think, Phineus?" He asks the only portrait wearing Slytherin colors, "Should Mr. Potter get a thorough talking to and maybe a few extra lines?  Even if Professor Umbridge took that excellent quill with her when she left."

I bite my lemon drop so hard I draw blood from my tongue.  The taste of lemon mixed with salt and iron floods my mouth.

But Phineus has not been the same since Sirius' death.  He looks at Severus with undisguised contempt.  "Oh shut up you poor excuse for a Professor!  Take my advice. Do what Dumbledore says and SHUT UP!!"

Severus steps back, almost tripping over his chair in surprise.  He had evidently forgotten that Phineus Nigellus was Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather.

He turns on me slowly, still fuming.

Severus, take your house brother's advice.  Please.

"I still hardly think..."

The presence in my heart expands with such speed that I am caught in shock.

Again images flood my head.  This time with sharp, short, thoughts like bits of some ancient doxology.

An infant, sleeping peacefully in Hagrid's arms.

Hope, sorrow, heartache, determination.

An infant's wail in a closet.

Guilt, necessity, sorry, sorry, sorry

An eleven year old walking in to his Sorting.

Too thin, too thin, so serious, sorry, sorry

The Mirror of Erised

No, no, no, not here, oh no

Green eyes filled with pain, with hope, with joy, with sorrow

Love, love, love

A fourteen year old boy shaking with the aftereffects of a terrible graveyard

Love, fear, horror, love, love, love, must protect, mustmustmustmust PROTECT

A fifteen year old shaking in rage and horror and despair

LoveloveloveHarryHarryHarrylovelovelovetreasureprincesweetHarrylovesorrySORRY

"What you think is not important." My voice is colder than it has been since, since ...

//Since the day you found out the truth about me.//

Severus, what have you done?

Snape draws back.  Now, all of a sudden, he realizes something is terribly wrong.

Too late Severus.  Too late.

"I am...."

"What you are is not important either."  I gesture to the chair.  "Sit down."

"Then Potter..."

"Since I am the only wizard in this room who has never used an Unforgivable Curse, I am the wizard whose judgement will abide in the matter of Harry."

He has gone so pale he might be a vampire.  He already ... what is it Quirrell said?... Harry told me....

//Sweeps around like a great black bat.//

Thank you, Tom.

"You were not so forgiving to me!"

There it is at last.  The cankered heart of the matter.  And much too far gone in this travesty of a conversation to do any good.

"You did not deserve it."

Snape sinks down into the chair, his mouth moving but forming no words.

I will be horrified later.  I will wonder how I could ever have done what I just did.  What I am about to do.  Is it that I am weary?  Is it that I am old?  Is it that I am still in shock from having my precious treasure

my child

scream at me with that look of hatred in his eyes?  Or is it that I am just finally at my end with this childish, vicious, jealous, bitter man?

It does not matter the reason. Severus has crossed the uncharted boundaries of my heart.

Traveler Be Ye Warned.  Here Be Monsters.

"We have a great deal to talk about Severus.  Yes a very great deal."


	2. Guilt and Obedience

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating- PG-13

Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Two: Guilt and Obedience

_Saturday, 29 July 1996_

_1009 GMT_

The beast may be awakened in my heart, but I am suddenly appalled at the look on Severus' face. He is so very tired, and has done so very much. He has faced dangers in the past few days that would have made most members of the Auror Corps quail at the mere imagining, and yet he is able to describe them as if they were mere workday inconveniences. Surely this can wait.

Surely it cannot.

Forgive me Severus.

"There is something else we need to discuss." I repeat, trying to delay the moment. Maybe if I could just breathe a few more deep breaths, I could get this strange presence under control. I try it, under the guise of taking a lemon drop. It seems to help a little.

But the monster is still there. It has settled for the moment, perhaps palliated by the stricken expression on Severus features, but it is only resting on its haunches. Perhaps I should send him away and try again later? But there can be no later. For one thing I must accompany Hagrid to Beauxbatons shortly. For another, some matters have gone unaddressed far too long.

Severus, why did you have to cross the boundary? I fear you we are both going to leave hear with claw marks on our souls.

//Like I said, Professor, you really should have invited Harry to stay.//

No, I realize now it is a good thing he is gone. My wonderful Harry is too good to enjoy this – even if he does hate both Snape and myself.

Harryharryharrypleasedon'tdon'tdon'tdon'tforgiveforgive

Snape is already so far gone into shock that he is forgetting to sneer. "Yes, Headmaster?" he says, in a voice that is, for him, almost contrite.

I sigh. It is a genuine sigh, because I really am very loath to begin this subject. Yet like a badly healed wound, I must rupture the scab and drain the filth before any repairs can be done – I will not deign to call it healing, for we are long past that. My fault again.

The monster within stirs and flexes its claws.

I am so very, very sorry my dear brave Professor Snape.

And yet I am not sorry at all. Before I walked through my days with a divided heart. Now it seems as if I have a divided mind as well. Not in the sense of insanity, but in the sense of a dawning realization of how complicated my feelings towards these most important people in my life, Severus Snape and Harry Potter, really are.

"We have not had a chance to speak since my return to Hogwarts, and there is a matter that we need to discuss and make very clear."

His face tenses. He knows what is coming. A sneer spreads across his features. It isn't his offensive sneer, it's his defensive sneer. When you've known him as long as I have, you can tell the difference.

"Anything, Professor Dumbledore." He is obviously going to try and pretend like the last few minutes of conversation never happened. I suppose he thinks that if he can fool Voldemort he can bluff his way through anything. But both his tone and his choice of words betray him.

Not Headmaster anymore? Oh Severus, can't you stop these childish games for a moment? I know it hurts, but you are only making it harder on yourself.

"I was given to understand a while ago when speaking with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin that you had discontinued Mr. Potter's Occlumency lessons. I request an accounting for you behavior."

Fawkes hisses softly. Evidently he would like an accounting as well.

The defensive sneer grows wider, but Snape's eyes gleam for a moment with something else – what? Anger? Jealousy? Almost certainly both and more besides.

"Lupin and Black," he fairly snarls the names, "probably also told you what I found Mr. Potter doing in my office!"

"The incident with the pensieve, yes, that was regretable." I try to maintain eye contact, but Severus closes both his eyes tightly while his face flushes.

"Regretable! It was....it....." He is actually shaking with anger. For a moment I am forcibly reminded of Harry. How alike the two of them are in some ways. Both so stubborn. 

And yet how unlike. One a shining prince. The other a ruined mockery of what might have been greatness.

//Careful Professor. Don't get sentimental. Your Harry has a long way to go yet. He may well end up like Severus, or like me.//

Yes, all three of them have much in common. Harry does share traits with both Tom and Snape.

HE WILL NEVER BECOME LIKE THEM! NEVER!!

That was not only my own thought speaking. In it was the definite roar of the awakened thing within me. A thing ready to spit in the very face of the universe at the suggestion that Harry could ever be like .... like Severus for whom I now feel such a feeling of intense pity and irritation that I don't know how I shall keep from bursting from being tugged in different directions.

"I apologize, Severus." I say softly.

"What?" He stares at me. "You apologize for Potter?"

"No. I apologize for me. I should have taken responsibility for the Occlumency lessons. Asking you to do so was unwise and, I now understand, unfair."

His shoulders slump. Suddenly he looks very weary indeed.

"I accept your apology, Headmaster."

We sit in silence for a long moment.

"Now if you will excuse me?" He makes to rise again.

"No Severus." I motion him down again, my expression I fear as sad as my heart.

He sinks back into the chair, looking puzzled.

"You never answered my request." 

"Pardon me?" He is both puzzled and angry now. The sneer widens, just slightly, into a small snarl. "I thought we had just covered that."

"No Severus. We covered my apology for placing you in an unwise and unfair position. But you have not given me an accounting for your behavior."

"My behavior?" The volume of his voice rises sharply and he leans forward, placing his hands on my desk, "My behavior toward HARRY POTTER!"

That sets Fawkes off again. I quickly raise my arm, which activates his perching instinct and gets him to settle onto my sleeve instead of flying at Severus in fury. He is hissing now like a defective muggle boiler about to explode. I push back from the desk and place him on my knee, seeing that I will probably have to keep a hand on him for the rest of the conversation if I'm going to spare Severus a visit to Poppy. 

"Yes, Severus," I say, "I believe that is what I am requesting."

"How can you?" The hurt in Severus' voice is patent now. "How can you defend him?"

And so we are back to exactly the same place again.

I know longer feel weary with the conversation. I am only feeling increasingly annoyed with this circular rhetoric of Snape's, so like a dog chasing its own tail.

That brings up memories of Sirius, and I hasten on.

"What Harry did was wrong," I readily admit. "But we are speaking of his Occlumency training."

And now it's time for you to explode again.

Severus doesn't disappoint me.

"Of course!" he hisses, his hands writhing on the arms of his chair, "Golden Potter always comes first! The whole school is so busy genuflecting to him they can't see that he isn't anything but an arrogant brat with no respect, no talent, and no willingness to work! Well, he carries a valuable scar, I'll give you that. But that's a case of a diamond harness on a worthless colt, and if I'm the only one that can see it the truth remains the truth!"

"Why are you so certain that you are the only one in this entire castle who can see the truth, Severus?" My voice has grown cold again, and has much more anger in it that I intended. Once again I wonder if I should send Snape away before things get completely out of control. "And I will thank you, once and for all, to save your colorful metaphors and your overstatements."

I actually think Snape is going to come out of the chair. He rocks back and forth, clutching his hands around his knees.

"Overstatements?" He leans forward and puts his hands on the far edge of my desk. "So Potter has no faults, does he?"

"I did not say that, Severus," I am surprised to hear the volume of my own voice rising. I did not intend it. The monster is coming forth again. "I have already said that what Harry did with regard to your penseive was wrong. However, I must admit it strange that few of his other professors seem to find him arrogant or without talent."

"If you are speaking of Lupin ..."

"I was speaking, Severus," I cut him off again, my voice once again rising without my consciously willing it, "of such persons as Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Sprout."

"McGonagall criticize one of her precious Gryffindors?" Snape does rise now. He stands there, breathing heavily like he has just run a long distance race.

I am truly sorry, Severus. But you bring so much on yourself.

"And the others?" I manage to keep my voice quiet this time.

"How could anyone be less than enthralled by The Boy Who Lived?" he asks also in a soft tone. "Especially when it is so clear where the feelings of the school leadership lie?"

A heavy pain is building up in the base of my skull. I pop three lemon drops into my mouth and close my eyes for a moment, trying to resist the urge to order Snape back to his dungeon.

//Wouldn't the students love that? A professor getting a detention!//

"Well," I try to pause before each word both to make sure I am proceeding wisely and to emphasize my enunciation – a habit of my youth which only returns when I am extremely aggravated, "defeating Lord Voldemort's shade, killing a basilisk, repelling dementors, and winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament as an underaged entry do tend to lead to admiration, Professor Snape."

Snape doesn't even pause, but flies immediately back onto the attack. "So you...."

"Sit down, Severus." I raise my hand to forestall his comments and gesture toward the empty chair.

Snape complies, his sneer this time communicating that he is only humoring a foolish request.

"Now," I continue, noticing that my heart has begun to pound rather noticeably along with the throbbing in my head, "you have yet to give me an account of your behavior."

"You yourself have just said...." the twinkles of rage in Severus' eyes are almost starlike now.

"Don't get started Severus." I raise my hand yet again. I'm beginning to feel like a muggle traffic policeman. "Just respond to my request."

"You know the facts already," he growls. "When he refused to apologize, I ejected him from my office."

"Refused," I ask, "or did not?"

"I beg your pardon, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Did Harry in fact refuse to apologize to you, or is it simply that he did not apologize to you?"

Snape folds his hands and stares at me with an inscrutable look. "Is there a difference?"

"A very great one, in fact." I rise, still holding Fawkes, and stroll to the windows to look out. It is a very rude gesture, but I need to relieve my eyes of the sight of Snape before the clogged emotions in my throat completely cut off my ability to breathe.

"He did not apologize." The statement is short, factual, and laden with bitterness.

"I understood as much. And as I have repeatedly said, he was in the wrong. But I think you then said that he was never to return to your office?"

"Headmaster..." suddenly Snape's voice is almost ... uncertain. I turn to look at him. He is shaking, but not now in rage. 

I suddenly feel all my pity for him return in a deluge.

"You know..." Snape continues, his voice wavering.

I move forward and once again stand by the chair. Snape is staring at the floor.

"Yes, Severus, I know the memory he saw. And I know that it is but the first in a chain of memories that lays bare the worst thread of your life. As I have said, I apologize. I should have known better than to ask you to take this task. Although I did not foresee the pensieve incident, I should have known that sooner or later issues like this would arise."

"Then, how can you..." Snape looks up at me, and for once his sneer is gone. He is only a tired, confused, suffering man.

I hate myself.

But what must be done is best done now and quickly.

I return to my chair and decide to risk putting Fawkes back on his perch. The phoenix is looking at Severus sadly once again.

"Severus," My voice almost cracks with pity and remorse, "did you understand the purpose of my instruction with regard to Mr. Potter's Occlumency training?"

"Yes," his breath is like a Dementor's screech, "but after what he did...."

"I know." I REALLY hate myself for what is coming next. "But do you really believe that you are free from guilt in this matter?"

"Free?" he seems not to comprehend the word.

"Yes Severus. Do you think yourself blameless? I admit that Harry provoked you beyond endurance. I admit that I should never have asked you to take up a burden that was too much for you. But do you think that frees you from guilt?"

He begins to sneer again.

It is as I feared. He cannot understand.

"How am I to be blamed?"

"How?" Suddenly the thing within me surges forward again. "Because, Severus," I say in my coldest tone, "you are a man, and you have been acting like a child for four years now."

"WHAT?" The rage in his eyes shines like two small suns.

"Why was Harry's action beyond endurance? Why was the burden too much for you?" I am going to rapidly now, but it is like steam issuing out of a volcanic vent. "Because you have nursed your grudges above your duty. You have placed your own feelings above the needs of the greater good!"

//You are a fine one to talk, Professor! Does not much of your behavior toward Harry fall in the same category?//

Why do you think that my heart is ripping open and bleeding right now?

"After all I have done, I am to...." Snape is practically spitting.

"HE IS NOT JAMES!" My fist connects with my desktop again, more loudly this time. Severus falls silent.

"I specifically instructed you to teach him Occlumency for the sake of the Order and the future. Did you not understand that?" I look at him, wanting to weep but knowing I cannot.

"Yes, I understood," he says, his expression hard.

"You could not do what I instructed you. And that is your fault. It is my fault that I did not understand your failing. But the failing itself lies with you." I say this even as I know it is a lie. I have told Harry that some hurts go too deep for the healing. 

But Severus has wallowed in his hurts for too long. If I were to be fair to him, he would only continue to fail – not deliberately, but fail nonetheless.

The monster is having a field day. And I have rarely felt so sick and guilty as I do right now.

"And so I am to continue Mr. Potter's training?" Snape asks this flatly. I do not meet his eyes. I have seen enough eyes laden with betrayal in the last few days.

"No, I will take over there. You are relieved of that burden." I try to smile. I manage a very weak facsimile.

"And of others as well." He does smile – a grim expression indeed. "Mr. Potter will doubtless drop potions from now on."

"Oh, I do not know." This is also going to be bad, but it must be done.

"What do you mean?" Snape's eyes narrow, then he leans forward with his hands on my desk once again. "Oh yes, Mr. Potter's ambition to be an Auror. Well, as you know I do not take students into my N.E.W.T. sections who score less than Outstanding on the potions section of their O.W.L.s. I doubt we need fear that Mr. Potter accomplished that."

I am very, very, very weary. This must end, and quickly.

"Severus, we are at war."

Snape snorts. "I am well aware of that, Professor. After all I..."

"Your contributions are valuable beyond price, and we hold them and you in great esteem." I brace myself. "But the key to victory lies with Harry Potter, and we must all make sure he has what weapons he needs."

"So, if Potter wants to be an Auror...:

"Severus," suddenly I find myself on my feet, "I expect everyone to cooperate with the war effort to their fullest ability. That means if I decide that Harry should be in your advanced potions classes, you will dispense with your policy at once and without question. Is that understood?"

Snape looks like he has been slapped.

"Professor, my policy...."

"Your policy is not important in light of our goal. Is that understood, Severus?" I draw myself to my full height and glare with all my might. I have withered a student or two in my day as well.

Snape gapes. "Yes....Headmaster."

"If I instruct you to take Neville Longbottom into your advanced potions class you will do so at once. If I instruct you to take on Hermione Granger as a teaching assistant you will not question. If I instruct you to take points away from Draco Malfoy you will comply without demur." I take a deep and shuddering breath, and then speak in a much softer tone. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Headmaster." I have rarely seen such bitterness in a grown man. In any other I would fear it might breed treachery. But not in Severus. His reasons for loyalty run too deep. Like his hatred of James Potter, they are too deep for the changing.

"Then you may go."

Severus rises, and this time I do look at his eyes. They are filled with hurt and betrayal.

He leaves silently.

And for what seems like the hundredth time in the last few days, I put my head in my hands and weep tears of guilt, pity, and shame.

* * *


	3. The World on Our Shoulders

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating – PG 13

Category – Angst/Drama

Disclaimer: All main characters belong to J. K. Rowling

A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! Now it is time to bring more people in on this little drama.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Three: The World on our Shoulders

_Saturday, 29 June 1996_

_1031 GMT_

_That went even worse than I was expecting._

I dry my eyes and pull myself together with the help of several lemon drops.  Severus' hurt still seems to vibrate in the air like a poisonous aura. Whatever else you can say about the man, he certainly has quite a presence.

I rise wearily and make my way to my private lavatory.  I am splashing cold water on my face and hands when I hear the first burst of music echoing from the stairway leading to the back corridors of the castle.  It sounds like some kind of vintage muggle rock.  After a moment I recognize the unmistakeable tones of Elvis Presley.

I return to my office just as a small, generally overlooked door in the wall near my desk opens to admit a house elf wearing a long black dress and white apron.  She is carrying a largish feather duster in one hand and a muggle boom box in the other.  From the box the sounds of Elvis Presley singing about hound dogs blare into the chamber.  When she sees me she immediately turns the music off and gives an apologetic half-bow.

"Master Albus, I was not expecting to be seeing you here.  I will be coming back later."

"That is quite all right Iris, quite all right."  I raise my hands to calm the elf, who is hastily gathering up her boom box – a gift from me last Christmas and one of the few pieces of muggle technology enchanted to work inside the wards of Hogwarts.

"You are being sure, Master Albus?" she asks doubtfully.  "Iris is needing to finish her cleaning."

"Go about whatever you need to do Iris, I will not be in your way."

"You are never being in the way, Master Albus," she remonstrates, walking over to Fawkes and producing a treat (highly concentrated peppermint) from a pocket of her dress.  Fawkes chirps in greeting and soars to the edge of my desk to take it from her hand.

"I thought you would be taking today off, Iris."  I walk over to the windows and stare vacantly out at the Quidditch pitch.

"Taking the day off.  Master Albus!"  Iris is clearly scandalized.  Although she, like Dobby, is a free elf, she has not lost the house elf's sense of duty.  She has taken care of my office and private chambers for many years now, as well as helping with several of my experiments.  In addition to a passion for muggle music of all types, Iris loves to tinker with equipment, both magical and mundane.  It is very useful to have a handyelf at my beck and call.

"I should have known better.  Forgive me."

"Yes, you should have been knowing better Master Albus," she replies as she climbs onto my chair and starts to dust my desk.

"Have you finished with those components and parts I laid out for you?"  I am not interested in the answer, really, but I need to talk to someone at the moment.

"Yes, Master Albus, Iris has fixed the scales naughty Harry Potter broke."

Fawkes hisses grumpily at that.  Unlike Severus, though, Iris is not startled by the phoenix.  She smiles at him and continues lightly, "Now don't be getting mad at Iris, Fawksie.  Iris is knowing that Harry Potter is being good boy."  She chucks Fawkes playfully under the beak with her duster.  "He is just having temper tantrum, is all."

Fawkes evidently decides to accept that, as he lofts back to his perch with no more fuss.

To my surprise, Iris stops her dusting and climbs down from my chair.  She approaches me with a look of indecision.

"Yes, Iris?"  Whatever she wants to talk about, it can't be as bad as my last conversation.

"Master Albus," she pauses, clearly not sure if she should go on.

"Go ahead Iris, say whatever you wish."

"Master Albus," she takes a deep breath, "Harry Potter is being good boy, but he is also being VERY naughty to be yelling at you and breaking your pretty things.  We are all being agreed."

"All, Iris?"  It seems that the affairs of my office are even more common knowledge than I had feared.

"All us house elves.  Even Dobby is agreeing!"

_Now that IS something._

"I appreciate you saying so, Iris."

"We are all talking about it, when we are making the Leavetaking Feast," Iris continues, "and we are deciding that Master Albus should DO something about it."

"Professor Snape would probably agree with you." I say.

"Iris is not knowing about that, Master Albus," says the elf, clearly not comfortable with the idea of being in concert with Snape, "but we are thinking we know what you should do."

//This I have to hear.//

_Tom, I didn't know you had a sense of humor._

"And what might that be, Iris."

"Well," Iris purses her lips, "there is three things Master Albus must be making naughty Harry Potter do."

"I am very interested to hear them."  And I really am.

"First, Master Albus must make Harry Potter eat more.  Harry Potter is being much too thin.  It is no wonder he is being cranky.  Master Albus must tell him that house elves will make Harry Potter good food and Harry Potter will eat it.  Two helpings each meal, at least."

_Odd, I didn't know Molly Weasley had any house elf relatives._

"Go on, Iris," I say.

"Second, Master Albus must be making Harry Potter drink lots of milk."

Excellent creature.  "Warm milk I suppose, Iris?"

"That's right Master Albus.  It being good to settle Harry Potter's tummy."

"Why would he need that, Iris?"  Suddenly this is getting a little more serious than I expected.

"Dobby is saying Harry Potter blames himself for everything.  Dobby is saying Harry Potter thinks he causes all his friends to hurt.  That is being bad for anyone's tummy."

"Is that so, Iris?"  

_Kind, loving Dobby.  I didn't know he saw so much.  And I had the nerve to talk about Sirius' attitude toward house elves!_

"That is right, Master Albus."

"And the third thing?"  

"Master Albus must be making Harry Potter take a nap every afternoon." Iris says firmly.

"A nap?" For some reason, that suggestion disturbs me much more than the last one.

"Yes, a nap."  Suddenly Iris looks very sad.  She moves toward me, and her voice grows soft, as if she is telling a secret.  "Dobby says that Harry Potter is never sleeping good.  Dobby says that even when Harry Potter is not having really bad nightmares about ... HIM.." Iris's whole body shudders, "he cries and groans in his sleep.  Is being very bad.  When young ones are not sleeping, they are getting very cranky.  Iris has seen it many, many times."  She nods sagely.

_Dobby, I will buy you a mountain of socks. And I will personally make sure that NONE of them have mates. _

"So," I find that the lump in my throat is so large I have to force the words out, "the house elves have decided a nap would help."

"Yes.  We are arguing a long time about how long every day.  We are thinking at first an hour.  But Dobby is saying that Master Albus will probably fix it so Harry Potter can play Quidditch again, and we are not wanting to cut into his practice time.  So we are deciding a half-hour nap every day."

_Wonderful creatures.  I wonder if house elves could repel Dementors?_

"Please," Iris continues, "no be telling Dobby I told you, Master Albus."

"Dobby?  Why would I tell Dobby?"  House elf intrigues?

"Dobby is wanting to come to you, but I am not being sure when he will get up the courage.  He is wanting to ask you to send an owl to Miss Hermione."

"Hermione Granger?"  This is getting complicated.  "Why would Ms. Granger be involved?"

"Well, Miss Hermione, she is liking to knit..." she pauses awkwardly.

I nod to encourage Iris.  I am aware of Hermione's noble but perhaps mischanneled ambitions to free the Gryffindor elves by leaving knitted hats and socks laying around for them to pick up.

"Dobby is thinking that maybe Miss Hermione would like to knit Harry Potter a blanket for his naps.  It would be giving her something nice to do."

_And stop her from upsetting the Gryffindor elves.  I had no idea house elves could be so devious.  Slytherins beware._

"And would Dobby tuck Harry in for his nap every day?"  I know I am making a little fun, but Iris has cheered me up so that I can't resist.

"Oh no, Master Albus," Iris replies seriously.  "Miss Ginny would be wanting to do that!"

"Ginny Weasely?" I ask slowly.  

"Yes, Master Albus," Iris nods, "the girl Wheezey.  She is wanting very much to be Harry Potter's other Wheezey.  He already has one, you are knowing."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

"But she is wanting to ACT like she does not want to be Harry Potter's other Wheezey.  And Harry Potter is not wanting to pay attention to her anyway.  Why are humans being so stupid, Master Albus?"

_If I knew that I would maybe be as wise as people think I am._

"I don't know, Iris."

"Iris is not knowing, either.  Is Master Albus going to the luncheon?"

"What?"  Suddenly warnings of an important date forgotten begin to flash in my mind.

"The luncheon in the garden.  Master Albus goes every year."

Gads.  The staff Leavetaking Luncheon.  The teachers always gather in the garden for a final meal on departure day.  In the stress of the morning, I had completely forgotten.  I just barely have time to get there.

"Yes I will be going Iris.  I am leaving now.  Can you watch Fawkes?  He is still a little touchy from his Burning."

"I am knowing Master Albus.  That is why I am bringing him some music.  It will be helping him feel better."  She produces a tape from her pocket and switches it with the one in the boom box.

As I depart hurriedly down the stairs, the opening strains of the music follow me.  Of course it is Stravinsky, "The Firebird Suite."

1106 GMT 

I arrive just a few minutes late, having been delayed by Argus Filch who wanted to air a passle of complaints about the state in which the departing students had left the corridors.  It is the first time I can ever recall having been late for the dinner, but no one seems to have noticed.  Given the bizarre nature of the year, such a small departure from tradition probably does not seem worth marking.

Severus has not deigned to appear, which sends a pang of regret through my chest.  Most everyone else is here though, except for Firenze, our newest faculty member.  I suppose he still feels uncomfortable mingling too closely with humans.

Despite the dark news confirming Voldemort's return, everyone seems in a good mood.  The lifting of the cloud represented by Umbridge has made even the gloom of uncertainty seem sunny.  Dear old Flitwick is holding court in one corner of the garden, while Sybill Trelawney has ensconced herself in another.  I am pleased to see that Minerva McGonagall has already arrived and is looking much stronger.  She is currently talking pleasantly with Poppy Pomfrey and Professor Sprout.

I hurry to take my place beside Minerva, nodding pleasantly to all and sundry as I pass.  Iris has managed to put me in a good mood, something I would not have believed possible after my disastrous encounter with Severus.  I have said my usual few words and declared the meal begun before I first turn to talk with Professor McGonagall.

And my good mood comes crashing down like a badly enchanted broomstick.

"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," she greets me politely.  But upon meeting my gaze her pleasant expression falters.  Her eyes are clear and strong, but there are darker shadows lurking deep within them.  Minerva likes to pretend to be stern, but I have learned over the years to read her moods.  And now she is deeply troubled.  Troubled and worried.

"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall," I reply in the same polite tone.  I give her a small nod to show that I have recognized her dissembling.  

The smile she gives me in return is much fainter than I would like.

The conversation at the end of the table nearest Trelawney suddenly falters.  I turn to see that Severus has stalked into the garden wearing an expression that would send gargoyles scurrying.

//Things bid well to get interesting again.//

_Severus, please don't._

He does not approach me for the nonce, preferring to take a seat near a clearly flustered divinations teacher and proceed to eat grimly as if this were a meal before joining battle.

I am very much afraid that is the way he sees it.

Nevertheless the luncheon proceeds pleasantly enough for the next hour or so.  Minerva manages to brighten up, at least when speaking to other staff, and I gradually draw my attention away from the glowering Snape.  The strange presence that has stirred...

_that Snape has awoken..._

in my heart is quiet.

Unfortunately it is over all too soon.  As the luncheon draws to a close Severus rises and sweeps in very like the great black bat of Quirrell's observation.

"Professor McGonagall, Headmaster," he bows briefly, his eyes as cold as ice chips, "have you both a moment?"

"A very brief one, Severus," I say quickly but brightly, hoping against hope that this is not what I think it is.

"Have you had a chance to speak with Professor McGonagall about the ... problem we discussed this morning, Headmaster?"  Snape's lip curls, the expression in his eyes is vicious.

_Please don't do this Severus.  Haven't you been hurt enough?_

"No, I have not had the chance, Severus," I say in resignation.  I glance at Minerva, who is looking extremely apprehensive – as well she might.

"I was thinking that perhaps the three of us would be well advised to discuss it."  Snape's voice is level, but I sense a cold fire radiating from him that would do credit to a Dementor.

I start to reject the idea at once, but catch myself.  Severus is determined, and will keep at this until he has completely bloodied himself, or me, one way or the other.  "Very well Severus.  Perhaps the three of us should speak together, if you feel it is important."

"I do."  His lips compress tightly.  I would have expected the absence of his usual sneer to be attractive, but the look of sour determination on his face now only fills me with dismay.

_Why are you so determined to destroy yourself, Severus?_

//Because he wants to deny you the pleasure, Headmaster.//

_Tom, I really dislike you very much._

"I would be happy to meet about any issue you find important, Severus," Minerva offers, her voice wary.  Her expression shows that she is only too aware that anything Snape is pushing so hard can't be pleasant.

"Very well.  Why don't you both dine with me this evening.  Shall we say six?"

"I would be glad to, Albus."  Minerva's expression is as close to pleading as her face ever gets.  She obviously needs to speak with me privately.  I catch her eye and nod briefly to show I understand.

"I will be there, Professor," Snape states flatly.

"Very well then," I try very hard to keep the dread from my voice, "until six."

1223 GMT 

As I had hoped, Iris is still busily cleaning when I return.  If I am going to salvage anything from this developing horror of a day, I will have to move quickly.  "Iris, I need you to do something for me at once."

"Anything you are asking, Master Albus," she replies brightly, leaving off dusting around the fire grate to come over to where I am standing.

"Go at once and find Professor McGonagall.  Tell her we need to meet this afternoon at three if she is able.  She will be able to find me in the old transfigurations classroom."

"I will be going at once, Master Albus.  What will you be wanting.  Tea?  Cakes?"

"Something simple, Iris," I say despairingly, knowing that the good elf will likely produce something to rival high tea at the Ministry.  Then again, there is probably still a good deal of food left over from the Leavetaking Feast and it never does to be wasteful.

"As you are asking, Master Albus.  Oh, and you might be wanting to let Fawksie sleep," she points to the phoenix, who is indeed sleeping with his head under one wing, "the music be doing the trick."

I decide to take her advice and retire to my sitting room, where I try desperately to make plans for the upcoming trek to Beuxbatons.  Unfortunately, my mind refuses to focus on the task at hand.  Before long I rise and head on tiptoe back into my office, going to a section of the wooden paneling that is decorated with pictures of the house mascots.  I press them in a pre-defined order – badger twice, serpent once, raven thrice, badger once, gryffin thrice, badger twice.  My hand still resting on the Hufflepuff symbol, I let myself smile.  This is one of my favorite jokes, albeit one to myself.  
  
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," I whisper.  A section of the paneling slides back, revealing a largish set of shelves filled with paraphernalia.  I look forward to showing this to Harry one day.  I have often imagined the smile it will elicit when he finds that the password to the Marauders' Map has other uses.  Of course, I will have to make sure he is in a calm mood.  The objects in this cabinet tend to be both delicate and irreplaceable.

//Ah yes, the Headmaster's Hutch of Dirty Tricks.//

SECRET tricks, Tom, SECRET tricks.

I retrieve a bowl like a pensieve except formed of black material, along with several small crystal vials filled with brightly colored liquids.

Oh the joyous days Harry and I could have exploring the entertaining uses of the ancient, rare, and/or illegal tools I have gathered over the last century!  Why we could spend entire afternoons while I tell him stories of how I came to assemble my collection. The dark bowl in my hand -- it is called a Mnemosynator -- me from a crypt below Istanbul.  I imagine the sound of Harry's beautiful laughter as I relate how I dealt with the lamia set to guard the room.

_Enough pleasant fantasizing.  Time for work_.

I move silently back into my sitting room and clear a spot on the table.  Breathing complex incantations under my breath, I carefully apply drops of the rare potions and ingredients in the vials to the bottom of the Mnemosynator.  This is the most trying part of process, and one I do not relish.  Although I am far from unaccomplished in the field of potions and alchemy, my talent does not approach Severus'.  I have often thought that one of that stubborn man's most infuriating traits is his persistent desire to teach DADA rather than relaxing and enjoying his gifts in a difficult and demanding arena.

Nevertheless, before long the various liquids have combined into a small pool of something with a bluish color and the apparent consistency of mercury.  The difficult part over, I let myself relax for a moment before touching my wand to my temple and carefully withdrawing the memories I need.  Placing the memory fluid on the bottom of the Mnemosynator, I briskly chant another set of incantations.  The two small puddles quiver, then slide together and merge briefly.  After a moment they slide apart.  The memory fluid is unchanged, but the other has taken on the color of healthy grass.

Picking up an empty vial, I gather the green liquid with a quick spell.  Then, with some reluctance, I replace the troubling memories in my head.  I long for the relief of my pensieve, but I need access to these specifics.  

_Besides, I don't deserve relief from this_.  

I still have a little while before my meeting with Minerva, so I quietly replace the Mnemosynator and potions in their secret hideaway, slip the newly created liquid into a pocket of my robes, and decide to go for a walk to gather my thoughts.  I deliberately skirt through the older sections of the castle.  The portraits here are less well known, even to me, and less likely to wish to engage me in random conversation.  I am also less likely to run into Argus Filch or one of the familiar ghosts. Sometimes even an empty Hogwarts can be a surprisingly crowded place.

My walk also does little to clear my head.  There is so much happening at once – more even than in the First War, more even than in Grindlewald's time.  The mess at the ministry seems to be getting worse by the day, at least as far as I can tell from Arthur Weasley's communications.  I have no love for Fudge, and every desire to see him and his subordinates – especially one Dolores Umbridge – receive their just deserts.  However disarray in the government is one of the worst things that could occur right now.  I am even beginning to wonder for the first time if I made the right decision by not stepping into the Ministry myself when people urged me to do so, years ago.  At the time I felt my place was at Hogwarts.  I still feel that way.  But the present crisis bids fair to endanger all of Wizarding Europe.  Was I too arrogant?  Should I have left Hogwarts in Minerva's capable hands and moved on to another post?

No, I have no business in the Ministry.  It is a world that I could never have stomached, and trying to adapt to it would have been a disaster.  For many people.

As if the current situation hasn't been a catastrophe beyond reckoning.

_Sirius, why couldn't you have stayed at Grimmauld Place like I told you?  Of all the things that could have happened to Harry, your death was the worst.  _

The thought of the Ministry also reminds me of the turmoil in the Weasley family. 

_Percy, Percy.  You have hurt your family so badly.  And you have disappointed me to the core._

//Perhaps the esteemed Hat made a mistake there, eh Professor.//  Tom's voice gloats.  //Our young lion seems to have some distinct snakelike characteristics.//

No, the Hat did not make a mistake.  Sortings are not simple matters of recognition, but hard calls of judgment.  Percy has the full bravery of a Gryffindor.

It's just that he is too foolish to understand the right causes to which to put that bravery.

//Now, now.  Are we perhaps letting the Hat off the hook?  Yet another case of rampant sentimentality, Professor?//

I really don't know.  In truth, I have sometimes wondered if single sortings at entrance are wise.  Given the tendency of people to grow and change, maybe we should re-sort everyone every year – including the Heads of House.  Wouldn't that raise howls if I proposed it!

I find that I have directed my steps toward the old transfigurations classroom without even meaning to.  I suppose it is natural.  After all, I taught in this room for decades.  Even now as I approach the voices of former students seem to echo through the dingy and now little-used corridor.

I enter the room to find that it has been freshly cleaned and the windows opened.  One thing I always liked about the classroom was its abundance of windows, which now let in solid streams of sunlight.  The furniture was removed from the room long ago, but the house elves have set up a couple of small tables with two large old-fashioned wooden chairs.  They have even remembered a stool for Minerva. As I feared one of the tables is groaning under the weight of various treats and candies, not to mention a distinctly ornate tea service.  

Well, it seldom pays to argue with house elves.  That reminds me that I still have to decide on the fate of Kreacher, the traitor who betrayed Harry into Voldemort's hands.  The last of the Black family being deceased, he is technically free, but completely insane.  He currently resides in the bowels of Hogwarts castle, watched over by our own house elves.

I am helping myself to the tea when Minerva enters.  She is walking much better now than she was just a few days ago, but I fear she has still not regained her full strength.  

  
Even this early in the afternoon signs of tiredness are showing on her face.  Still, she accepts tea and candy with a smile.  I draw up a chair near to hers and make a point to maintain eye contact.  Minerva has a way of relying on her on strength far too much – something I might say for many people around Hogwarts.

"Thank you Albus," she says as she arranges her refreshments on a small table the elves have placed near her chair, "I assume you felt that we should discuss strategy concerning whatever it is that is bothering Severus?"

"Quite right, Professor McGonagall."  I cannot resist smiling and attempting a small jab, "Are you quite sure you don't have a seer's talent."

Minerva snorts.  Despite her kindness toward Professor Trelawney this year, and her ready acceptance of the centaur Firenze, she has made not secret of her low opinion of divination as a branch of magical studies.  "Hardly Albus.  But even Severus is not in the habit of being so insistent on a Leavetaking Day, and at a Leavetaking Luncheon, without good reason.  And it must be something delicate, or else you would have called all three of us together at once."

"Once again I am deeply impressed by your powers of analysis, my dear Minerva," I respond in all truth.  "However, before we get to that matter, am I correct in sensing there is something you about which you wish to speak with me, first?"

"My powers of analysis indeed!  Albus, it is impossible to keep anything in this castle hidden from you, isn't it?"

"Oh, it is indeed possible, Minerva," 

The last four years have provided several examples of THAT 

"but it IS difficult." I finish.  "However, I did not think you were attempting to keep it particularly concealed."

"I wasn't," she admitted.  She frowns then and takes a deep sip of her tea, her expression uncharacteristically unsure.  "But it is not easy to admit my mistakes."

Minerva, compared to me what do you have to admit? 

"Don't flay yourself, Professor," I offer her another cake, "Just say whatever it is that needs to be said, then I will do the same."

She sighs and shifts as if finding it difficult to arrange herself in a comfortable position.  "It probably won't surprise you to hear that it's about Harry Potter."

The thing in my heart suddenly uncurls and sits up on its haunches.

"I am never surprised to hear that anything in this castle has to do with Harry," I say in my calmest voice.

DON'T LET THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE!  DON'T TELL ME I'VE LET MORE PAIN FALL ON HARRY!

"What in particular has happened?" I put my cup aside, and I am absurdly proud that my hands are so steady that the china does not even clink.

The thing in my heart shifts restlessly.

"I had a conversation with Hermione Granger this morning," Minerva smiles in her peculiar way that conveys both deep compassion and stern determination in one expression.  "It confirmed something I had been suspecting for a while, ever since certain practices of Dolores Umbridge's came to my attention."

"Practices Minerva?"  There are many that come to mind.

"Her rather intense method for assigning lines."  The compassion is completely gone from Minerva's smile now.

"Ah yes, that infamous quill."  Once she had gained a firm grip on the school, Umbridge had used the quill on several students.  I can only imagine what the reaction of the parents will be.  I am looking forward to redirecting Howlers in the direction of Fudge and the Ministry.

I am also looking forward to observing the longer-term results of Fudge's obstinence and Umbridge's ... sadism.  I am not by nature a vindictive man, and many times I have had to stand silent in the face of unfairness that has made my heart burn like fever.  My dislike of violence and my distrust of revenge were the main reasons that I retrieved Umbridge from the ministrations of the centaurs, much as she deserved to remain with them.  Still, a passion for revenge is not the same as a liking for justice.  And after this year there are many people for whom justice is overdue.

"It occurred to me that she probably used that method during Harry's detentions earlier in the year."  Minerva's smile is completely gone now.

"Please I go on," I reply, my stomach suddenly convulsing as I remember watching Harry's detentions

OH HARRY YOUR POOR HAND

from afar, frozen from interfering by political necessity and varieties of calculated reasoning that did not keep me from retching 

HARRY OH MY HARRY

as I observed Harry's blood splattering on parchment while Umbridge

HAGTOADVILEVILEVILETOADHAG

looked on and gloated.

Some people are very lucky I am not by nature a vindictive man.

Suddenly Minerva's face is twisted by an emotion I am all too familiar with.  It is one I have been battling constantly nearly all of this terrible, terrible year.  It is anger – the kind of anger directed inward at one's one horrid mistakes.

"Albus," McGonagall says in a tightly controlled tone, "he came to me for help and I refused.  I turned a deaf ear to him and sent him to that monster."

I have picked up my teacup again, but at that I set it down so fast the crack of abused china fills the room.

It takes me a brief moment to compose myself as a flash of rage nearly causes me to roar

"YOU DID WHAT!?"  The creature in my heart has let out a bellow that I choke down with all my might.

_Control yourself Albus.  This is Minerva, not Severus._

"I find myself doubting that, Professor McGonagall."  If she notes that I do not use her given name, she gives no sign.  "Please tell me everything."

"She didn't bother to inform him of the detentions herself, she sent me a message about it.  When I told him he asked if there wasn't something I could do, since he had only spoken the truth.  I told him it was not about truth or falsehood but about keeping his head down and his mouth closed.  I even said she was his teacher and had every right to give him detentions."  McGonagall speaks flatly with the tone of one relating simple facts.  But her hands twist in her lap.

I feel myself relaxing.  I even manage a sad smile.  "Minerva, you had no way of knowing what was going to happen.  And that was good advice that Harry would have done well to heed."

Her hands continue to twist.  "But later Albus, when the problems continued ... I went to him and told him he must get his temper under control.  I even took points from him!"

//Well, that was remarkably stupid if I do say so.//

Tom, do shut up.

"I regretted doing it that very night," Minerva continues, "but I was so tired Albus, with Umbridge and the Order and all, and when I heard he had blown up yet again... I was the one who should have kept my temper under control."

"You meant well, Minerva."  I reach over and lay my hand on her shoulder.  She smiles sadly.

"Later, after things began to get very bad, I started to hear rumors.  I did not want to believe them." 

Kindhearted Minerva.  As stern as you like to pretend you are you cannot quite believe the depth of human evil, can you?

"Then," she continues, and I see she is fighting to get words out, "I started to see students bleeding ... bleeding Albus! ... from their hands, and I knew it was true.  And I remembered all those detentions and I..." she chokes and wipes the corner of her eyes.

"You suspected the same had happened to Harry." I finish for her softly.

She nods.  "And so this morning I managed to corner Hermione Granger and she told me... she told me the monster had made him carve his hand every night!  The very night I took points from him he had to go and slice his skin open!"  She lowers her head and buries her face in her hands.

So much guilt.  So little fault.

I squeeze her shoulder.  "And now you are blaming yourself, wondering why he did not come to you?"

She nods slowly, then raises her head and wipes her eyes once more.  "I can't help but think that if I had been more patient with him...   I knew what he had been through Albus, why did I have to be so abrupt?"

"You were tired," I say softly, "and the strain was too much.  We cannot shoulder the evils of the world, Minerva."

Unless, of course, like me you cause so many of them.

"I would have HELPED him Albus."  Her face contorts and I can see she is doing her utmost to keep from openly crying.  "I would have!  If he had come to me, if he had shown me, I never would have allowed...." she lowers her head again.

"Minerva..."

"That day on the Quidditch Pitch," she continues softly, "when she gave him the lifetime ban – he just stood there Albus.  I wanted to say something, DO something.  But I was so stunned...  Why can't I ever speak up when I should?  Especially about Harry?"  She looks at me, and now there is a dark shadow once again in her eyes – a shadow of memory.

Why didn't you stop me from leaving him at Privet Drive?  That is what you are thinking, isn't it Minerva.

//Very good question.//

SILENCE! 

"We will have the ban off, Minerva," I say.

//Not that he is likely to have time to play Quidditch at any point in the near future.//

Maybe not.  But we WILL have the ban off.

She nods.  "But why did he just look at me Albus?  I wanted him to cry, to yell, to do something!  But he just looked at me.  Looked at me like he knew I was useless and not to be trusted."

"Minerva, I..."

What can I say?  I watched it all from afar.  Watched it all and I was not thinking of you, Minerva.  All I wanted to do was fold Harry in my arms and let him sob.

But I did not do anything either.

//My you are a useless bunch.//

I don't have a reply for that.

"And then I heard about that quill and..."

"He was protecting you Minerva."  I speak softly but sharply.  This is spiraling out of control and I will not have her crucifying herself.

"What?"  She looks at me puzzled.

"Harry knew you would help him."

Well, that is not exactly true.  But I know you would have. 

"He knew you would help him," I continued, "and he was afraid that Umbridge would sack you.  So he said nothing."

I won't get in to why he did not come to me, although the very bones in my body ached to see him come running up the stairs to my office.

"He was protecting me?"  Her tone is half-wondering, half-angry.  "How DARE he!"

I fight back a smile.  This is much better.

"I am the Head of Gryffindor!  It is my place to protect him!"  Spots of color have appeared on Minerva's cheeks.  "What was that boy thinking?!"

"Or not thinking, as the case may be." I finish, smiling.  

"How DARE he protect me when that hag was torturing him!  I'll give him something to protect when I get my hands on him!"

Oh yes, this is much better.

Then I feel my smile slip.

"Harry is not very good when it comes to asking for help, Minerva."  I reach for my teacup, and this time it rattles appreciatively as I lift it.  "That is my fault.  I left him with the Dursley's, and they taught him never to admit weakness."

Minerva is looking at me sadly.  However, she makes no move to contradict or argue.  I have long known how she feels about that decision, although she rarely mentions it.

I try to comfort myself with the thought that she does not know my full reasons.  No one does, except now Harry.  But my effort at self-justification rings so hollow even in my own head that I abandon it before it really starts.

"I am afraid I have made things worse, Minerva.  I do not know how he will ever trust us again."  Tears burn in my eyes, but I manage to retain my calm.

McGonagall now reaches out and places her hand on my shoulder.  "Sirius?"

"It is the worst thing that could have happened, bar maybe the death of Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger."  I take a shuddering breath and reach from a lemon drop.  The elves have thoughtfully left a crystal jar full of them on the tea table.

"It is going to be difficult, Albus." She takes a breath of her own.  "We need to have him out of there, quickly.  And over the summer, maybe we should talk with him?"

"We must," I say.  

And now things get extremely bad.

"Something has happened – something terrible."  I offer her a lemon drop, which she accepts absent-mindedly.

"So finally we get to Severus."  Her expression is grim but not without humor.

I bite back a bitter chuckle.  How naturally the thought of disaster and Severus Snape go together.

"Yes."  I reach into a pocket of my robes and pull out the vial of green liquid. "To save time, I prepared this."

"A memoria extract," she says immediately, "from your pensieve?"

"No, from my mind.  It contains several key scenes that you can see better than I can describe. And it might be best if you absorbed them directly.  Do you mind?"

"Not at all."  She takes the vial and swallows the contents quickly.  Then she leans back in her chair and closes her eyes while her mind assimilates the memories I have copied from my brain.

"Oh no."  She breaths softly.  "Harry!"  Her hands clench again, and this time stray tears do roll down her face.  She is reliving the scene with Harry in my office.

Now she relaxes as her mind moves on to my recent encounter with Snape. 

She does not stay relaxed long.  

"WHAT?!"  Her shout is almost enough to set the china rattling.  I can only assume she has reached the part about Harry's use of the Cruciatus Curse.  Tears descend in steady streams as she progresses through the rest of the confrontation, hissing at various parts that I think I can identify as being Snape's least charitable comments.

Finally she opens her eyes, looking dazed.  Silently, I offer her a handkerchief which she uses to wipe her face.  I then offer her my hand, which she grips with fingers that feel like iron.

"Albus," her voice trembles, "you should have told me sooner!  We should have spoken to Harry before he left.  Oh the poor, poor child."

"He would not have listened," I explain, suddenly feeling every one of my years bearing down on me, "and I am not sure he will now.  I am not sure what it will take to get him to listen."

"But we MUST speak with him.  I can't imagine..." she smiles suddenly, a real smile.  "He was not able to use it, was he?  He was not able to torture Bellatrix, even after what she had done."

I squeeze her hand.  I knew Minerva would see it.

"No," I say past a lump the size of London, "he was not."

"What a splendid Auror he will make!" she exclaims suddenly.

I can't help but laugh.  "Harry is splendid in his own right.  And what do you mean Auror?  In case you haven't noticed, we have a Defense Against the Dark Arts position we can't keep filled!"

"Oh ho," her eyes dance merrily, "and I suppose you intend to chain him to the floor to keep him from flying off?"

"Something like that," I allow.  "I suppose I'll settle for chaining up his broomstick.  Of course I'll have to set up wards against summoning charms." The reminder of the Weasley twins' last escapade causes us both to spend several long seconds chuckling.

No, Harry cannot be flying off to work for the ministry.  He and I have far too many enjoyable days to spend together.  

Once he starts speaking to me again, that is.

//And once...I...am dead.//

Well, that too.

Frankly at the moment I think that dealing with Voldemort may prove the easier of the tasks.

"But what shall we do about Severus?" I ask softly.

"Don't tempt me with such an open-ended question," Minerva answers, her good humor not quite evaporated.

"I understand the temptation," I allow.  "But we do have quite a problem."

"Yes." Suddenly she is completely serious.  "I would not have imagined his hurt could run so very deep."

"As I told Harry, I had forgotten."  I sigh.  "Despite everything I said this morning, he is determined to worry this issue like...." the image I was about to use sticks in my throat.

"A dog with a bone?" Minerva finishes quietly.

SIRIUS.  What I wouldn't give to have you back for Harry's sake.  And mine.

"Yes."

"I know how you feel about the man, Albus," Minerva begins slowly, "but you have done everything to try and get him to back off with his feelings intact.  I just don't see how to spare him."

"Neither do I."  That is what is causing a burning sensation to build in my stomach.

"He won't be satisfied with anything less than a full trial."  She snorts.  "I think we can agree that after what Harry went through this year..."

"A trial would be out of the question regardless!"  I almost growl.

Still.

Suddenly an idea has sprung up in my mind, rather like one of Professor Sprout's Mirage Cacti.

"Yes Albus?"  She has known me a very long time, has Minerva.

I quickly outline my inspiration.

"I don't know," she says, "it probably would not work, Albus."

"No," I admit, "but nothing is likely to work and this has a better chance than most."

"We don't have much time."  When Minerva sets out to play Devil's Advocate, she sometimes over does it.

"All the more reason to begin now.  If you will excuse me, my dear Professor McGonagall?  I have a great deal to do quickly and you need to get some rest if you are going to be in top form this evening!"

"REST," she explodes, "I'll have you know Albus Dumbledore..."

I leave her still remonstrating and hurry back to my office.  Fawkes is awake and greets me cheerfully.  I stroke his feathers and offer him a treat then ring a small chime, a different one than that I used to summon Professor Snape this morning.  My desk is always well stocked with writing supplies – Iris sees to that – so I am almost finished scrawling quick notes when the house elf arrives.

"Master Albus is calling?" she inquires politely, looking with frank curiosity at the pile of envelopes on my desk.  They are official Hogwarts stationary, with the Headmaster's seal and the urgent marking.

"Yes Iris.  I need these delivered at once.  Summon other elves to help if you need.  It is vital that they all arrive to their recipients in the next few minutes."

"Iris is doing, Master Albus."

I hand her the stack, asking as I do, "How are things with Kreacher?"

"Well, they are being OK ... now."  She turns to hurry off, but I catch her with my eye and she stops with a visible sigh.

"Now?"

"Well, when Dobby is finding out what Kreacher has done to Harry Potter, it is taking four strong house elves to be pulling him off."  She turns to go again, but I clear my throat loudly.

"And how is Kreacher?"  

"Well," she sighs again, "Kreacher is not being very handsome to start with, Master Albus."

"IRIS!"

"House elves be healing very fast, as Master Albus knows."

Indeed I do.

"So you are keeping Dobby away from Kreacher?"

"Oh yes Master Albus.  After all, house elves are having enough work without cleaning up the floor – and the walls – and the ceiling."

I do not want to know.

"Just keep them apart Iris.  We may need Kreacher yet."

"That is what we be telling Dobby!"

"And what did Dobby say?"  I brace myself.

"He is saying that Master Albus could probably still be using Kreacher if he is not having his arms and legs."

//I have to admit, the elf has style.//

So he does.

"Is Master Albus wanting to talk to Dobby?" Iris asks a little fearfully.

"No," I say after a moment's consideration, "just keep them apart." The last thing I need is Dobby punishing himself after a reprimand.

"Is there anything else Master Albus, Iris should be going."  The elf hoists the bundle of letters and looks at me with a faintly scolding expression.

"No, go on Iris.  Make sure they are delivered."

"Iris is already saying ...."

"I know Iris," I chuckle softly, "I trust you.  Just go."

The elf scurries off.  I stroke Fawkes and lean back in my chair, planning my strategy for the evening.

This could be an absolute catastrophe.

And how else would it be different from everything else I've done this year?

How else indeed?

Despite everything, I find that my mood has lifted slightly.

Taking a piece of paper, I make a note for new research on whether house elves can repel dementors.


	4. Trials and Tribulations

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating – PG 13

Category – Angst/Drama

Disclaimer: Main characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Once again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews! Now let's see what Dumbledore was planning.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Four: Trials and Tribulations

Saturday, 29 June 1996 

_1813 GMT_

Things were ready by the time Severus arrived.

I have arranged for dinner to take place in the Nigellus Room.  I don't usually use the chamber.  It was designed as a formal dining room for small but important parties, but the taste of Phineus Nigellus did not run to suit my own preferences.  It is a darkish, heavy space lined in stone with large fireplaces and a heavy wooden table that looks like it came out of a torture chamber (although I know in fact that Phineus had it specially made by a Glasgow carpenter).  All of the furniture is portentious and wooden with somber cushions.  The paintings are the most stylistic kind, as was popular when Nigellus was headmaster.  They depict famous scenes in wizarding history.  I will say for them that they lack the mawkish and hypocritical sentimentality found in so much modern art (including the recently demolished fountain in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic).  The best painting is that of Phineus himself.  He is currently gazing down with frank curiosity, his expression tragically sad.  Yes, Phineus has not been the same since Sirius died.

All told the chamber has the feel of a courtroom or inquisition chamber.  That is the reason I have chosen it this evening.  

Severus strides in a few minutes late, as I had expected – and counted on.  He stops in the doorway, his sneer frozen in surprise at the scene that greets him.

The table is filled with food of course, as well as with Nigellus' silverware – as large and tastelessly portentious as the rest of the room.  The occupants of the table do not fit the props quite so well.  I sit in the center, trying my best to look at ease despite my misgivings about this hastily conceived plan.  Minerva is on my left, an empty chair to my right.  Beyond the empty chair sits Professor Flitwick, propped up on a mound of pillows the house elves have provided.  On the other side of Minerva is Professor Sprout, looking like a philodendron in a mandragora bed.  Beyond Professor Sprout, Poppy Pomfrey occupies one end of the table.  At the other end Professor Binns' ghostly presence is the only member of the party even partly in keeping with the surroundings.

"Hello Severus," I greet the potions master with as much good cheer as I can deliberately muster, "please join us."  I gesture at the chair to my right.

"Good evening....everyone," he says slowly, his gaze scanning the table, dark eyes drinking in details.

_You do understand the details, don't you Severus?_

I have requested that my guests present themselves somewhat more formally than is their usual habit.  I am in one of my most official, and most uncomfortable, robes.  Minerva is wearing her usual black, but with the crest of Gryffindor House embroidered on the breast of her dress.  Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick are both wearing the glittering seals – a kind of archaic amulet – that proclaim them the Heads of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw respectively.  Poppy is clad in her lime green Healer's robes – a sight almost never seen on Hogwarts grounds.  And Binns is .... Binns.

Severus slowly circles the table and takes his chair, his expression one of wariness and distaste.  

//This could be very amusing indeed.//

It could be, or very disastrous.

I make small talk as we fill our plates and begin to eat.  Minerva remains quiet, but interjects forcefully when conversation threatens to lag.  That is not much of a problem.  Evidently Poppy and Sprout are eager to continue a friendly argument they began in the garden this afternoon, and Flitwick is rarely at a loss for words about anything.

As we finish our main courses and begin to move into the deserts, I catch Minerva's eye.  She nods grimly.  Severus has not said ten words the past hour, but the heat coming from his direction has been steadily building like a dragon stoking its furnaces.

"Colleagues," I say, rising to emphasize my words, "thank you for attending on such short notice.  As my note indicated, we have a matter of grave importance to consider."

All of them regard me patiently except for Binns who rarely pays attention to anyone but himself and Severus, who is glowering death in my general direction.

"I recently spoke with young Mr. Potter concerning his experiences in the Ministry of Magic," this is a necessary ruse to preserve the secrecy of Severus' mission – I will bring Harry in on the situation as soon as I can.  "In our conversation, he related a most disturbing series of events.  Professors Snape, McGonagall, and myself have been in discussion about this affair.  Frankly, I feel the need to bring this before a full meeting of the Heads, with Madame Pomfrey and Professor Binns kindly agreeing to contribute special insights."

Both Sprout and Flitwick are listening with expressions of concern.  Poppy has her best professional air in evidence, but her eyes are solemn.

"Now, I feel it best if Professor," Severus stirs and leans forward, "McGonagall relates the situation to you."

I sit again and lean toward Snape.  "It is best this way Severus.  It avoids too many questions."

Severus just looks at me with a distrustful sniff.

Minerva does not rise, but looks around a sighs a trifle dramatically.  

//She is going to have to take acting lessons if she ever wants to take over from you, Professor.//

_Come now Tom.  Headmaster Dippet was not a great dissembler, either._

//And we all know what a success HE was.  Remember that little incident with Aragog and the breaking of Hagrid's wand?//

"In the course of our conversation, Mr. Potter related his confrontation with Bellatrix LeStrange immediately after the death of the person I believe you now all understand was both innocent and his godfather."  Minerva continues in her sharp, efficient way, outlining the events of Harry's use of the Cruciatus Curse.

Silence falls in the room as she finishes.

//Then again, she does know how to capture her audience.//

Professor Sprout sobs softly.  The subject of Unforgivable Curses naturally brings up the memory of Cedric Diggory.  Flitwick is looking uncharacteristically sober.  Poppy has folded her hands, and her breath makes small whistling sounds as it passes through her clenched teeth.

//The roll of the dice.//

_Tom, I don't care for the metaphor._

//Would you prefer the spin of the wheel?//

He is right.  This is the dangerous moment.  I force myself to remain calm and silent, and not to look at Severus.  

"Dear, dear," Flitwick finally says, his high voice filled with concern, "we MUST do something about that."

I risk taking a look at Snape.  He is leaning back in his chair looking like an owl that has just caught a particularly juicy mouse.  "I agree," he says in a tone that is practically an audible manifestation of his sneer, "what shall we do with Mr. Potter?"

"Do with him," Professor Sprout interjects, "you mean do FOR him.  I had not realized all of this .... It is DREADFUL!"  She shakes her head vigorously, causing the various blossoms on her overlarge hat to dance fitfully.

I relax and let out a breath.  I had my doubts about Sprout, to be honest.  Her memory of Cedric Diggory is strong, but lately I have sensed her to be a little resentful of my concern for Harry's welfare.  Hufflepuff House gets little notice or glory, and from time to time a streak of jealousy does manifest.  I had gambled on her kind heart and basic sense of fairness, and I have won.  The initial crisis point has passed.

Flitwick nods in agreement.  "It is indeed dreadful, Professor Sprout.  I feel for the boy as much as anyone.  But this is a very serious matter."  He drums his fingers on the table, a sign I have learned over the years of inner turmoil.  Flitwick is as kind as Sprout, but has the Ravenclaw's love of logic and clarity.  He is giving off waves of unhappiness.

Severus, however, is in his glory.  "Serious puts it mildly, Professor Flitwick.  We are talking of an Unforgivable Curse."

"An attempted Unforgivable, Severus," I correct softly.

Sprout's eyes narrow.  She cares little for Severus

//Surprise there.//

and as I hoped, her love of Cedric Diggory and her innate decency are rapidly overcoming any feelings of jealousy concerning Harry's "privileged" status.

"Are you suggesting, Professor Snape," Sprout asks coldly, "that we turn the child over to the Ministry?  To Cornelius _Fudge?_" I doubt the name of a dessert has ever been pronounced with such venom at this table before.

"I am merely saying, Professor Sprout," Snape replies at his most unctuous, "that all aspects of the situation must be considered."

"I am sorry to say I agree," Flitwick says miserably.  "There are serious legal and ethical questions here."

"I agree as well," I say softly.

Snape looks at me like someone who has received a shock from a muggle electric device.  Distrust and alarm cross his features.

//"Snap," goes the trap.//

_True,_ I think with a lack of charity that surprises myself, _"snap" on Snape._

"I anticipated that we might need to examine these issues," I continue, "so I asked Professor Binns to do some quick research on the precedents and background."

"The legal issues surrounding use of Unforgivables are common knowledge," Snape says coldly.

"That is an overstatement Professor," Binns interjects for the first time.  He has drawn his spectral presence up and assumed a lecturing position.  Minerva groans softly and Flitwick looks at the ghost with a smile on his face that appeared pained.  "In fact, as with most historical matters, loose talk and insufficient attention to detail and facts have clouded public understanding to the point of creating an potpourri of incorrect understandings."

"Do go on, Professor Binns," I encourage.  Sprout and Pomfrey both join Minerva in groaning.  Both Binns and I steadfastly ignore them.

"Well, first of all," the ghost continues, "the term Unforgivable is a loose designation that has only been given some decree of clarity in the last three decades.  Its roots probably lie in the Middle Ages with a group of spells that were known as 'Infernal Curses' due to their presumptive demonic origin.  These included..."

"I am sure that is very interesting Professor," I interject, "but at this point brevity would be more helpful than comprehensiveness."

"As you say, Headmaster," Binns actually sounded hurt.  But he skipped forward, "I suppose the point is that the so called Unforgivables have, in fact, historically proven to be anything but."

"How is that, Professor?" Minerva asked, trying to move Binns along a strategic path we have pre-arranged.

He rises to the bait wonderfully.  "First off, the category is very vague until, as I say, relatively recent decisions of law.  It first appeared in 1731 with regard to the Mentis Curse, an ancestor of the Imperious.  That is an interesting circumstance..."

I clear my throat loudly.

"Uh, oh, in any case, the Imperious was the first to be included, followed by the Cruciatus.  The Killing Curse was not officially declared Unforgivable until its use for executions was discontinued in 1958."

"Hmmm," Flitwick's eyes are shining as he senses a puzzle.  Excellent!  I had hoped his Ravenclaw proclivities would be piqued.  "But what do you mean when you say that the Unforgivables are anything but?"

"Just that, Professor," Binns replies pompously, placing his hand on a largish stack of books resting near him on the table.  "Exceptions are numerous and well-recorded.  For instance the use of the Killing Curse during time of war is explicitly allowed, although to be sure debate rages as to exactly what conditions must be met before such a state of war can actually be said to exist. Similarly, in a famous case in 1931, that of _Ministry of Magic v. Kennerhan, _ it was decided by the Wizengamot that use of an Imperious Curse to prevent a murder was not considered to fall in the area of Unforgivability."          

"I am not aware, however," Severus says with a cold sneer, "that there are such exceptions for the Cruciatus."

"No, there are not," Binns allows, "not for a successful Cruciatus.  But an attempted Cruciatus is another story."

"The Wizengamot has never..." Severus begins with a snarl.

"No, the Wizengamot has not," Binns says unperturbed.  When he gathers momentum very few things can derail one of our esteemed historians lectures.  "However, there is another case that applies.  I have taken the liberty of making copies."  He passes out pieces of parchment filled with close-set and official-looking writing.  "In 1988, the Supreme Court of the American Wizarding State decided the case of a failed Cruciatus Curse arising in the context of a Quodpot game in Michigan.  Evidently a player deliberately fouled a member of the opposing team, causing serious injury.  The injured players brother, one Alexander Houdini Murgatroyd, snapped a Cruciatus at the offending party.  The Cruciatus failed and Murgatroyd was taken into custody and found guilty.  This is a copy of the majority decision, authored by Mr. Justice Begay."

I smile at the image the name brings to mind.  The last time I saw Jefferson Begay he was cursing roundly after losing a bet on a Sasquatch weightlifting tournament.  The old Navajo is colorful, foul-mouthed, and utterly brilliant when it comes to legal argument and interpretation.

Despite the fact that we all have copies of the decision in the case of _Wizarding State v. Murgatroyd_ in front of us, Binns insists on reading it aloud:

I. It is a long held principle of law that both _action_ and _intent_ must be taken into consideration with regard to matters of verdict and sentencing.  This principle has empowered many of the major aspects of our jurisprudence, including the concept of mercy for the mentally deranged and the provisions in the legal code for leniency in the case of self-defense.

II. Such a distinction between action and intent is of the utmost relevance when a court is called upon to consider matters involving Class I B Curses, the so-called Cruciatiform family, the most well-known example of which is the Cruciatus curse itself.  As the curse requires a specific intent and attitude for its effectiveness, both the links and distinctions between action and intent are of crucial importance in these cases.

III. This Court specifically recognizes that the placing of Class I B curses in the category of Mandatory Sentencing was originally justified by the Wizarding State Legislature by a consideration both of the effects of the Curse and the mental attitude, i.e. the extreme intent to do harm, that must exist in order for the curse to manifest effectively.  An unusual aspect of these curses is that intent directly influences action, in that the absence of a certain antisocial mental state effectively prohibits use of these spells.

IV. Therefore, failed use of the spells in a situation involving an otherwise competent member of the wizarding community is presumptive evidence of lack of true and effective intent.  As the presence of such intent was one underpinning justification for including such curses in the Mandatory Sentencing statutes, its absence raises severe doubts in equity as to the propriety of invoking said statutes in cases of failed curses.

V. This Court therefore specifically recognizes and defines that failed attempts involving the Cruciatiform Family of curses do not fit all of the requirements set forth in the Mandatory Sentencing Statutes, Wizarding State Codes, 68-1156.  Rather such attempts fall under the more general headings of magical assault as defined in Wizarding State Codes, 86-932.

VI. Failed attempts shall therefore be considered henceforth under the aforementioned assault codes or there duly adopted replacements.  All aspects of the codes, including provisions for leniency, clemency, and dismissal in situations of self-defense, mental derangement, minor legal status, or action under extreme physical, mental, and or emotional duress shall apply

VII. It is the recognition of this court that in the original trial of _Wizarding State v. Murgatroyd_, the jury specifically stated its preference for clemency but was over-ruled by the presiding judge who held that mandatory sentencing applied, this decision being upheld by the Upper Mid-Western Circuit Court of Appeals.

VIII. The decision of the lower court in this matter is herewith reversed.

IX. Pursuant to the majority decision in this case, the minor Alexander Houdini Murgatroyd is discharged from custody _per curiam_.

"_Per curiam,"_ Binns explained, "is a legal term meaning by order of the entire court, it...

"I am aware of what it means!" Snape is almost snarling now.

//Ah, he senses the jaws of the trap about to spring down hard.//

"I fail to see," Snape continued, "what a decision of an American court has to do with this matter."

"A very great deal actually," Binns replied calmly.  "While it is true that decisions of the Supreme Court of the American Wizarding State do not have the force of formal precedent in Britain, it is well recognized that Anglo-American Wizarding Law, like its Muggle equivalent, springs from common principles and historical roots.  Especially in matters of basic equity, as opposed to technical interpretation, decisions of the Supreme Court are often referenced as justificatory guidelines for judgments of the Wizengamot and _vice versa_.  This particular opinion by Mr. Justice Begay was referenced by the Wizengamot as recently as 1993, in regard to a failed Imperious Curse in the context of spousal abuse.  Let me see," Binns flips through a book quickly, "the presiding judge was...."

"Albus Dumbledore," I finish for him.  "Yes I remember that.  The Darkstone Case.  Most upsetting."

Severus lets out a sound like he has just been punched in the gut.

//And there goes the noose around dear Professor Snape's throat.  I wonder how long it will take before he realizes that he can't breathe?//

_Knowing Snape, longer than one would think._

Flitwick is beaming and rubbing his hands in delight.  "Excellent, excellent!"

"Excellent?" If that word could kill, Flitwick would be dust.  As it is Snape is clenching his own hands together so tightly that I wonder he does not break his fingers.

"Yes dear fellow," Flitwick pats Snape's arm, "nothing could be clearer!  Mr. Potter's situation is most definitely addressed in Justice Begay's opinion!"

If Jefferson Begay were within reach I would kiss him.  

"He is a minor and was certainly under extreme stress" Flitwick continued.  "What would you say Madame Pomfrey?"

Poppy has been listening with alternating boredom and amusement.  Now she smiles her small, tight smile and speaks for the first time.  "I would say that, given the events of the evening at the Ministry, Mr. Potter's emotional state falls well within the category of extreme stress.  I have no doubt the Wizengamot would concur."

"We have no guarantee that the Wizengamot would rely on this opinion..." Snape begins.  Yes indeed, like a dog worrying at a bone.

"I think we do." Sprout's voice is cool, but her eyes are amused.  "Have you forgotten, Severus?  Albus has just been re-appointed as presiding judge of the Wizengamot."

Snape makes a choking sound.

//You are right.  He managed to ignore the noose longer than one would think.//

"Certainly Professor Dumbledore would have to recuse himself..."

"Not at all, Professor," Binns' dry voice interjects.  "Judges on the Wizengamot must recuse themselves if they are personally involved in a given affair or have a conflict of interest.  Merely having previously stated opinions on a subject, or having produced a decision in an affair, do not constitute conflict of interest.  If they did, Minister Fudge could not have presided over Mr. Potter's trial this past August."

I honestly think Severus might explode.

"Besides," Professor Sprout is now looking at Snape with flat dislike, "I see no reason that the Wizengamot should be bothered with this affair."

"Nor do I, Professor," Flitwick says cheerfully.  "Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Headmaster, so that we can get all the possible tangles tied up.  But I think this is clearly a matter for counseling.  I suggest we leave it in the hands of Professor McGonagall as Head of Gryffindor, under your supervision of course Headmaster, and with the advice and aid of Madame Pomfrey."

"I agree," Sprout says decisively.

Minerva nods, as does Poppy.

Severus sinks back in his chair and almost growls.

_Severus, I have given you more than ample opportunity to exit this affair gracefully._

Within me the thing in my heart emits a series of short and not very nice laughs.

"Still," I say, "that disgraceful episode in August over Harry's encounter with the Dementors shows that one cannot count on the good sense of the Ministry.  If it were to come before the court, a record of our discussions would be most useful."

"Of course dear chap, of course!"  Flitwick beams.  "Let's have a decision drawn up and we can affix the House Seals!"  He gestures at the amulet he is wearing.  Sprout smiles and signals her concurrence with a wave of her hand.

"I rather thought we might want to have something written.  In this case it would be best if we used a live secretary, don't you think?"  Sounds of approval from everyone except Severus.  Enchanted quills have their uses, but for official purposes hand-transcription is often preferred.  "I took the liberty of having someone stand by just in case we decided to draw up a formal document."

Severus looks like he wants to spit acid.

Severus, if you had only been reasonable this morning.  But that just isn't in your nature, is it?

//Reasonable people generally do not have careers as Deatheaters, Professor.  No matter how brief.//

True.

I reach for a small chime similar to one of those in my office.  After a few moments the door swings open to admit Iris.  For the occasion she has changed from her normal apparel into a rather becoming tweed outfit complete with a jaunty hat cocked on one side of her head.  She carries a muggle briefcase in one hand.  However, the feather duster held in her other hand spoils the effect just a bit.

"You is calling, Master Albus?"

"Yes Iris.  As I thought, we need a document prepared.  Would you mind?"

"Of course Iris is not minding, Master Albus."  She strolls up to the table and scrambles onto an empty chair.  As their are no more cushions available, she simply remains standing, which puts her at about the same height as Flitwick.  After making several vigorous passes at the surface of the table with her feather duster, she places the briefcase down and begins to carefully take out parchment, ink, and quills.

"Iris is being ready, Master Albus."

"I really must object, Headmaster," Snape has sucked in his cheeks so severely he resembles a skeleton.  His voice actually hisses past his teeth.  "It is not at all appropriate that a House Elf be party to faculty discussions, especially on such a sensitive topic."

"Iris is completely trustworthy," I answer coldly.  "And she has a great deal of experience with regard to subjects of this kind."

"Experience?"  Snape raises his eyebrows so high they nearly disappear under his hairline.  "What kind of experience?  Did she make beds for a Dark Wizard?"

"How is Professor Severus knowing?" Iris answers brightly before I can respond.

"Pardon?"  Snape shoots me a final glance of disapproval then shifts his attention to Iris, whom he regards with the same expression he probably uses for a potion ingredient he is about to chop into small bits.

"How is Professor Severus knowing about that?  Of course, he was not HIM," Iris shudders dramatically then, "just nasty Tom Riddle."

Snape looks completely confused as do the other members of the staff.  I have never told them this particular story.

//Oh how delightfully droll.//

Do us both a large favor Tom and pretend you are suffering from a silencing curse.

"Tom Riddle?"  Sprout asks, her voice hovering between amusement and amazement.

"Yes, Iris is being in charge of cleaning Slytherin boys' dormitory back then.  Iris is knowing that Tom Riddle is nasty boy."  She shakes her head sadly.  "When poor Miss Myrtle is dying Iris is being sure nasty Tom has something to do with it.  She is trying to warn silly Headmaster Dippet.  But silly headmaster is no listening.  Is saying Iris is making things up.  Is giving Iris clothes."  The good elf does not seem put out in the slightest by the memory of the injustice.  "Is working out OK though.  As soon as Iris is freed she is going to warn Master Albus."

Indeed she did.  Her visit was the first confirmation that someone besides myself had an uncomfortable feeling about Tom Riddle.

//Done in by the maid.  Oh my.//

"Master Albus is needing someone to clean and fix his pretty things.  So Iris is going to work for him as personal elf."

Most of the staff are watching the elf with various levels of surprise.  Severus, however, goes on the attack.

"How DARE you!   What do you mean insulting a Hogwarts Headmaster?!"

"Iris is not insulting Headmaster Dippet," the elf says with a casual shrug, "is only telling truth.  Headmaster is being good man, but like a lot of wizards, is being thick in head.  So is doing stupid things."

"And what makes you think you are qualified to judge Headmaster Dippet's actions?"  Severus glares at Iris with narrowed eyes.

"Is Professor Severus reading newspaper lately?" Iris responds easily.

A choking sound comes from the end of the table.  I look over to see Professor Sprout, as red as a strawberry from suppressed laughter, fighting hard not to guffaw.  Beyond her Poppy is grinning like I have seldom seen, and even Phineus Nigellus in his portrait has his hands over his mouth to hide a smile.

"Professor Binns," I interject, having to use a good deal of willpower to keep my own voice from shaking with mirth, "would you do the honors of dictating our findings?"

"Certainly Headmaster," Binns replies.  Is it my imagination, or does even he have a new trace of warmth in his tone?

If he does, it is soon lost as Binns, in his glory, drones out several paragraphs summarizing our "consensus" opinion in suitably high-sounding jargon, occasionally aided by interjections from Flitwick.  Iris quickly copies the dictation in her clear hand, the quill magically transferring her markings to several other parchment sheets resting on the table nearby.

After several minutes Iris puts the final flourish on the closely written document and holds up a small pile of copies.  "Is being ready to sign, Master Albus."

"A dozen copies?" Snape sounds like he would love to tear someone limb from limb.

"Yes," I say.  "Our recent experience with the ministry has impressed me with the ... eccentricities ... of government when it comes to manipulating paperwork.  We have a copy for each House, two for the Headmaster's files, three for the ministry, and three for the Wizengamot."  I beam in Severus direction, trying to plead with him through my eyes not to make things in harder on himself.  "Of course, it is to be hoped that those last six will never have to be filed."

"And why should they be more dear fellow, why should they be?" Flitwick cries merrily.  "Pass them around Iris and we will get them all signed and sealed."  He detaches the Ravenclaw seal from its chain, while Sprout readies the badger seal of Hufflepuff.  Minerva quietly removes the Gryffindor seal from a pocket of her robes.

I look at Snape, who is now openly fuming.  Has he defied me yet again?  The letters I sent to each of the House Heads this afternoon, including Severus, specifically instructed them to bring their House seals.  Finally he reaches into an interior pocket and produces the serpent seal of Slytherin House.

"It strikes me," Severus says suddenly, "that in affairs of this nature a minority report is often included.  Are we sure that all points of view are represented in this...document?"

//Oh ho.  Good move.//

Yes, and one I had not anticipated.

"Do you mean you have another opinion, dear fellow?"  Flitwick asks.

"Yes I do," Snape says vehemently.  "Frankly I think we are using very questionable reasoning here.  Letting Mr. Potter off the hook just because some Apache judge"

Navajo, Severus, Navajo.

"thinks he can make fine distinctions.  That is a decision for the Wizengamot, not us."

"So Severus, you think Mr. Potter should go to Azkaban?"  Poppy has lost her grin rapidly.

"I think that I cannot endorse such an irresponsible act as is being proposed here!  We are talking about cavalierly throwing out Wizarding tradition!"

"Scarcely that," Flitwick says.  "After all, there is plentiful precedent, as Professor Binns has provided."

"Who are we to decide that?" Severus is nearly yelling.  "Let Mr. Potter take his chances with the court!  That is what it is for."

Silence descends on the room.  I put on my wisest expression and try desperately to think of some way to salvage the situation.

Luckily I don't have to.

"That would not be a good idea Severus."  Professor Sprout is still red, but this time from anger rather than joy.

"To send Potter to the Wizengamot.  I think it would be a VERY good idea!"  Severus sniffs like someone caught in the midst of a suddenly discovered garbage heap.

"No, it would not be a good idea for you to refuse to sign."  She smiles, and I am taken aback by her expression.  Sprout is the most good-hearted of souls, but suddenly she reminds me of one of her carnivorous trees.  I am reminded of just how high her esteem for Cedric Diggory had been.  "If you were to do so people might observe that all of the Deatheaters involved in the Ministry affair were Slytherins – including Bellatrix and of course .... Tom Riddle."

Severus looks like he has been slapped.  "Are you implying that I am speaking for House prejudice?"

"I don't think she is saying that at all, Severus."  Flitwick's voice is uncharacteristically hard.  His eyes glitter like marbles.  "She is only reviewing the facts.  And the fact is, Severus, that allowing this decision to go forward without the Slytherin House seal would not look very good.  No it would not look very good at all."

_Et tu Flitwick?_ Snape's expression says.

Severus looks at me with poison in his glare.  I simply return his gaze steadily.  He opens his mouth.

Don't do it, Severus.

He closes it with an audible snap.  Finally he picks up a quill and scrawls his signature on the bottom of the closest copy of the decree, affixing the Slytherin seal next to his name.

Within a few minutes all of the Heads of House have signed and sealed the documents.  I draw the Great Seal of Hogwarts from an inner pocket and slap it forcefully onto each of the twelve copies.  The seal magically imprints itself onto the parchment next to my name.

And it is done.

I hand each of he Heads a copy (Severus looks like his burns his fingers) and pass the remainder over to Iris, who secrets them in her briefcase.  The staff rises.  It is late, and there is much to do still to bring the school year to a complete close.

As he leaves Severus turns to look at me and once again seems about to speak.  Once again he finally closes his jaws forcefully.

I am so very sorry Severus.  But if you will not be reasonable, I must draw your fangs.

Severus finally spins on his heel and stalks out.

Minerva remains for a few moments more, looking at me wordlessly, plainly offering to talk if I need to.  I consider it, but then smile at her sadly and shake my head.  Her face shows she understands.  Sometimes there is just little to say.

Finally it is just Iris and myself.

"That is not going so well, is it Master Albus?"  Iris looks at the door and sighs.

"No, it did not Iris.  But I could not hope that it would."

But I had hoped that it would.  I had hoped that Severus would finally back down short of more humiliation.

Severus, I do care for you, I really do.

That does not mean, however, that I am prepared to allow him to threaten Harry.  

"Is anything I can do for you, Master Albus?"

Yes.  Get Harry another childhood and Severus another life.

"No, Iris, oh wait," I hold up one finger as she prepares to go, "do leave a note for me on my desk, would you?"

"Of course, Master Albus, about what?"

"I need to send a message to America.  I want to know when Jefferson Begay would be available to give some lectures on wizarding law."


	5. Of Pajamas and Professors

Author – Dzeytoun

Category – Angst/Drama

Rating – PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N:  Thank you very much for all the kind reviews.  I had intended this tale to end with the next chapter.  However, the story has taken on a life of its own.  In addition I have been gratified, and somewhat overwhelmed, by all the kind comments and urgings to continue.  **So, I suppose there is nothing for it but to chronicle Albus Dumbledore's entire summer.**  I apologize in advance for how extremely long that means this fic is going to get.

Since that is a slight change of plan, I will have to go back and make some minor changes in the earlier chapters, but no big deal.  As of now I will start appending dates and times so that we can know exactly where we are in the summer of 1996.  For the sake of the chronicle, I am arbitrarily setting the Leavetaking Feast as occurring on the evening of Friday, 28 June, 1996 with Harry's sixth year Welcome Feast occurring on the evening of Sunday, 1 September, 1996

Now, how will Minerva and Albus approach counseling Harry?  How will Harry react to the counseling and to the House Elves "sentence" ?  What will happen with Snape, Harry, and Dumbledore?   What is going to happern at Beauxbatons?  How will Fudge's ministry fair (and what will that mean for a certain "Wheezey" who is currently not in very high favor with many people)?  What are Voldemort's plans?  How will Dumbledore ever gain Harry's forgiveness, or will he?  What's going on with the other two members of the trio, and the rest of the Order?  Stay tuned.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Five:  Of Pajamas and Professors

_Saturday, 29 June 1996_

_2310 GMT_

I don't sleep much that night.

I have every reason to sleep.  For one thing, I will be leaving for Beauxbatons with Hagrid on Monday.  For another, I have managed to do what I set out to do – rendering Severus harmless in the matter of Harry and the Cruciatus Curse.  But Snape's dark eyes still haunt me – so full of hurt and betrayal.

Or rather it is not by Severus' eyes that I am haunted, but by my own feelings.  Namely I should feel guilty.  Certainly whatever gods there are know I have reason enough to feel guilty, and I have plenty of experience with feelings of guilt.  

But I don't feel the slightest bit guilty at all.

Three times I reach out to comfort myself with sleeping potions.  Three times I draw back.  There is something at work here – something that has been building slowly over the hours since my first confrontation with Severus this past morning.  And whatever it is, I sense that it must be solved, not drugged into invisibility.

Finally I arise and make my way into my library.  The globed candles come alight at my entrance, as they are enchanted to do.  But I don't choose a book.  Instead I walk across the floor in my dressing gown and sit in an old, comfortable leather chair, staring vaguely at the wall of bound volumes.  I toy with the edge of my gown.  It is one of my favorites, embroidered with golden snitches that constantly move and flutter, occasionally darting in random directions light lightning bolts.  I plan to get Harry some pajamas, and perhaps a bathrobe, in the same pattern for his birthday.  I have never given him a birthday gift as such, and I am thinking that if I can get a decree from the Ministry lifting his lifetime Quidditch ban by the end of July, I will enclose the notification and the clothes in the same box.  It will be a gesture towards reconciliation.  I just haven't quite figured out how to make sure he doesn't throw the box away unopened when he realizes whom it's from.

I suppose that a headmaster really should not be giving his students birthday gifts.  But when it comes to Harry my patience with priggish standards of propriety is rapidly waning.  

//Besides, it never hurts to fatten the lamb up a little before the slaughter.//

_WHAT!_

//Or would you prefer gilding the scapegoat's horns before driving it into the desert to die?//

_Tom, I...._

The sound of his laughter fills my mind.  Not the young Tom now, but the old one.  The one grown pure in his essence of hatred.  The one holding Harry's mind in his serpentine grip as he taunts me at the Ministry, calling on me to strike them both down.

//Oh it is just absolutely priceless!  The great Dumbledore twittering around thinking about a boy's pajamas!//

_I happen to love this particular boy._

//So you say.  Well, a piece of advice.  Just get him the robe.  It won't show wear as much and you can give it to somebody else afterwards.//

_After what?_

//After he's dead of course.//

_NOOOO!!  HARRY WILL NOT DIE!  HE WILL WIN!!!!_

//It's too late for you to lie to yourself, oh Great and Wise Albus.  Your precious Harry has as much chance of surviving the next two years as a flobberworm has in a fight with one of Hagrid's blast-ended skrewts.//

"NO!"  I don't realize that I've actually yelled aloud until my foot lashes out and turns over a nearby reading stand, sending papers flying in all directions.  I come to my feet.

"NO ... HE ... WILL ... NOT... DIE!!!"  I grasp the back of my chair and wrench, turning it over and hurling it an impressive distance across the room.

//That's what you said about Sirius Black as well.  Now look what that got him ... an express train to the puppy farm in the sky.//

"NOOOO!!!"  I grab another reading stand and hurl it after the chair.  I stride over to the chair on the other side of the stand and turn it over too for good measure.

//Two chairs and two stands, not very much compared to your "treasure's" performance.  But then again he is much younger.//

I stride over to yet a third chair, but suddenly I feel tired .... and old.  I lean forward, resting my hands on its arms and taking in air with great gasps.

//Do you want to know why you can't bring yourself to care that you just humiliated and betrayed or beloved potions master?  It's because you know he is going to die soon as well.  You're just more willing to accept that fact in his case.//

"No." This time the sound is like a whimper.

//You keep babbling to Harry about 'love.'  Where was your love for our poor tormented Severus this afternoon?//

I make a sound like a fish trying to breathe out of water.

//Love, my dear professor, has little power in this world, despite the nonsense you have been feeding Harry.  But that is all right.  It will just make him go to the slaughter more willingly.//

"He will not die."  I whisper that, because I can't force my throat open suddenly.

//There is no such thing as this precious love, Albus.  There is only Dumbledore the mighty and his schemes.  And Dumbledore has decided that Snape MUST be humiliated, because Harry MUST not be punished.  Of course, Dumbledore has no problem letting Harry live in a closet for ten years.  That softens him up and makes him vulnerable for the whole hero and salvation scenario, after all.//

"I do love him."

//Of course you do.  That is why you are sitting here now worrying about his bathrobe when he is trapped in a house with those wretched muggles who hate him?//

"I love him."

//Keep saying that if it comforts you, but you don't really believe it because it isn't true.//

"I do."

//He is useful to you.  But do not make a fool of yourself.//

"I LOVE HIM!"

//Oh, I suppose he makes a nice pet.  Instead of pajamas, why don't you get him a nice dog collar and leash with the Hogwart's seal?  You can teach him to heel and beg and roll over and shake hands.  I bet he will even carry your slippers in his mouth.//

_Shut up._

//No, this is far too enjoyable.  Admit it, what you really want is for Harry to wear his pretty collar, curl up by your chair, and purr when you scratch his belly.  Then you want him to go tear the throat out of your enemy and, if he survives the process, you'll even let him lick your hand before you have him destroyed.  After all, pets who outlive their purpose are a nuisance.//

_SHUT UP!_

//After all, what is Severus but one of your pets who has outlived his use – or is about to anyway.? I'll allow that Harry is prettier, though.//

_I never meant to hurt Severus._

//You could have fooled me – and him too.//

"Master Albus.  Is everything being OK?"

I snap my head up.  Iris has entered the library, a look of surprise in her eyes.  She is carrying a tray.

"I am seeing lights in library window, so I am bringing Master Albus a snack."  She surveys the overturned furniture.  "Is Harry Potter being here, Master Albus?"

"Er, no Iris."

"Is looking like it."  She regards me with an inscrutable gaze but does not pursue the subject.  "Why is Master Albus not being asleep?"

"Just considering things, Iris."

"Is not worrying about smelly Snape, is he?"  Iris puts down the tray and surveys me, hands on hips.

"Professor Snape, Iris."  The least I can do is see that Severus gets the respect of his professional titles.

"Is not worrying about smelly Professor Snape, is he?" Iris seems not the least bit perturbed.

"That is not very nice, Iris."

"Is being true.  Professor Snape is always smelling like cauldron."  

//She has a point.//

She does indeed.  A permanent stench around one's person is one of the professional hazards of being a potions teacher.

"Professor Severus is not wanting to be happy," Iris continues, busily fussing over the tray, laying out a plate and silverware, "so is not very good idea to be worrying over him."

_How to the point you can be, Iris._

"There are other things to be concerned about, Iris."

I am not worried that Snape will take drastic action.  His reasons for loyalty are far too deep.  But he is likely to be even nastier in the future.  And the last thing we need around here are more petty distractions.

Iris shrugs.  "Smelly Professor Severus is never liking good boy Harry Potter.  Iris is not understanding, but is the way of things.  Smelly Professor Severus needs to grow up and quit acting like elfling."

"To be fair," 

_am I actually having this conversation?_

"Harry did provoke him."

Iris in not impressed.  "Good Harry Potter is being fifteen," she brings me the plate with a small mound of sandwiches, "smelly Snape is being thirty-four.  If smelly Snape is not learning how to deal with naughtiness by now, he is needing to find another job."

_But it goes beyond naughtiness, Iris.  That is the point._

"Who would I get to teach potions then, Iris?"  I smile to try and lighten the mood.

"Is being good point, Master Albus.  Professor Severus is not minding smell, and is not many can say that.  Besides, is also being good with Slytherins."

_He is that_.

"And Master Albus is needing to find Defense teacher ... AGAIN!" She looks at the ceiling and sighs.

I almost copy her gesture.  I have had some spectacular failures in that area.  Quirrell managed to sneak Voldemort's essence into the castle under my very nose, and in my haste to rectify the situation I accepted Gilderoy Lockhart's reputation at face value.  It is altogether too bad that Lupin cannot return, but the parents would not stand for it.  Yet another mess of Snape's devising – although he has little reason to like Lupin.

_And when has liking someone been a prerequisite for professional behavior?  Iris is right, the man needs to quit acting like an infant._

"Iris is knowing," the elf snaps her fingers, "Master Albus can have Harry Potter teaching Defense classes.  Dobby is saying he is very good with Master Albus' army."

"He is only fifteen, as you have said Iris."

Iris smiles.  "Is also having faced nasty Tom Riddle many times.  Who else is saying that?"

_Good point._

"Harry will have quite enough to deal with in the next couple of years, Iris.  He does not need teaching responsibility."

The chime signaling that someone has used the password downstairs sounds through my quarters.  I put the plate down and hurry into my office, Iris following discreetly.  Why is someone here at this time of night?  The last time that happened...

The last time that happened I thought I was about to lose Arthur Weasley to a serpent bite and Harry to possession.

I find myself in a near run.

I enter my office to find Minerva already present.  She is still fully dressed and has the look of someone who needs desperately to sleep but cannot.

"Oh, I'm sorry Albus, did I wake you?  I saw the lights in your library windows."

"You did not wake me Minerva," I sink into a chair, weak with relief that this is not an emergency, "I am glad you're here."  I motion for her to take a seat.

"I thought we should review the day's events."  Her tone is even, but her eyes dark with worry.  "This might be our last chance of a while."

Yes, it might be at that.  I am leaving for Beuxbatons tomorrow and she is taking up a mission for the Order.

"It did not go as well as I had hoped," I admit.  "Another old man's folly."

"How so Albus?"

How so indeed?  In so many ways.

I hesitate to answer.  She sits calmly, respecting my silence.

"You know I told Harry that I had forgotten that some hurts go too deep for the healing?  I suppose I forgot again today."

"You expected Severus to show reason?" Her tone is faintly incredulous.

"I had hoped he would at least be accepting of the facts," I smile a weary smile. 

"He has never been known to let facts get in the way of his feelings about some things," Minerva sniffs disdainfully.  The rigid discipline required by transfigurations sometimes makes it hard to understand people who let their emotions control their thoughts.

Perhaps that is my trouble, the reason I have made so many mistakes in the last few months.  I was, after all, a transfigurations teacher.

"Like the Cruciatus Curse?"  I smile again, this time in bitterness.

"Like the fact that Harry has James Potter's face and Lilly Evans' eyes!"  Minerva closes her own eyes briefly, overcome by memory.  "I know it is hard for the man , but..."

"Harder than you imagine, Minerva," I say softly.  An image flashes in my mind....

Severus, weeping and hysterical in my arms.

"That is no excuse."  A judge pronouncing a death sentence might have the same tone as Minerva, just then.

Iris enters before I can reply.  She is carrying an even larger tray this time, and is followed by two more elves carrying baskets.

"Iris is bringing more food," she says, stating the obvious.  "Is Professor Minerva feeling well?"

"Quite well, thank you Iris," Minerva answers politely.

In a quick bustle the elves clear off my desk, put down a small tablecloth, and proceed to lay out an impressive array of cold sandwiches and beverages.  Well, mostly cold.  I note that the milk is steaming faintly.  Iris dismisses her two helpers, but shows every sign of remaining herself.

"Iris has reminded me that we will need a new Defense teacher, yet again," I say lightly as we move over to sample the food.  On getting no answer I glance at Minerva.  She is looking with interest at my nightgown and I realize this is the first chance she has had to see the effects of the moving snitches.

"I was thinking of getting Harry a robe and pajamas in the same pattern," I offer as I pick up one of the glasses of warm milk.  "Don't you think it would be quite striking in Gryffindor colors?"

"Err, yes Albus."  For some reason she looks faintly ill.  

"Besides," I say picking up a sandwich, "I am hoping to have the Quidditch ban off by his birthday.  I could give him the proclamation and the clothes at the same time."

"Yes," Minerva brightens, "that would be wonderful."

"On the other hand," I say mischievously, "Iris is wanting him to teach, so he might not have time to play Quidditch."

"Oh, but Harry Potter MUST be playing Quidditch, Master Albus!" Iris interjects fervently, "Else he must be taking whole hour naps!"

"Pardon?" Minerva says, obviously totally confused.

Iris earnestly explains the house elves' plan for Harry's "rehabilitation."  I add an explanation of her suggestion that Harry teach the DADA sections.

"My goodness," Minerva observes dryly, "you have been thinking about this a lot, Iris."

"All House Elves have been thinking," Iris replies fervently, "and is coming up with good plan."

"Well..." Minerva is clearly searching for something to say.

"On the subject of the Defense classes," I cut in, "who might we get?"

"That is an excellent question," Minerva says.  "I don't suppose you would consider letting Severus do it?  That might go a long way towards soothing his pride."

"I'm not sure," I allow.  "It would make him happy, or at least happier, but I have worries about letting Severus meddle too much with that subject.  It bids well to bring out the worst in him."

"I understand.  But be fair Albus.  If his current... er...never mind."  Iris is regarding our exchange with naked interest.

No matter, I know what she was about to say.  If posing as a Deatheater does not cause Severus' darkest tendencies to rise to the surface, nothing will.

"Noted," I say.  "That is one option.  Are there any others?  Except for Harry teaching, of course." I nod gravely to Iris.

"An Auror would be ideal.  We could have Moody,"

I wince in recollection of yet another mistake,

"or even an active Auror.  I doubt the Ministry could raise serious objections in this circumstance."

"The only active Aurors I would trust with the job would be Tonks or Kingsley, and both of them are needed elsewhere – as is Moody for that matter."

"Well, we will need to make a decision soon," Minerva sighs, "If only Remus..."

"I know."

"Iris is cleaning out bad Umbridge's office," the house elf interjects, "is getting it ready for next teacher."

"You need not do that Iris," I say in surprise.  Although Iris enjoys helping the other house elves, I try to emphasize her free and independent status as much as possible.

"Iris is knowing," she says calmly.  "But is wanting to make sure Master Albus is getting some things – like nasty quill."

Excellent thinking.

"Why thank you Iris.  Yes, we want that out of general circulation, don't we?" 

Not to mention it might be useful to have as evidence later.

"Also is wanting to make sure that Harry Potter's broomstick is stored right.  Needing key to room in dungeon."

"That's good."  I had dismissed the guard troll that had been patrolling in front of the room where Umbridge had placed Harry's Firebolt after the incident with the twins.  Suddenly something strikes me.  "What do you mean stored right, Iris?  Didn't Harry take it with him?"

"No, Harry Potter is not taking broomstick."

I exchange a worried glance with Minerva.  "Did he get the note I sent?"  I had sent Harry a note a couple of days ago, telling him he could reclaim his beloved Firebolt – all the more beloved now that it had been a gift from Sirius.

"Yes, Dobby is giving Harry Potter message.  He is saying Harry Potter just shrugging.  Dobby is worried, but is thinking that Harry Potter never gets chance to fly at nasty Dursley's anyway.  Was thinking he would take it to Harry Potter at his Wheezey's later this summer."

Minerva is frowning fiercely.  I feel a pang in my heart.  This is such a painful subject for her after the events of this year!

But that is not at all like Harry.

//Maybe he is going to take the easy way out and thought you might as well have the Firebolt.//

A thrill of fear races through my heart.  Harry would not... could not...

"Minerva," my voice is calm but a fold my hands to keep them from shaking, "would you have a little while tomorrow to take a floo trip?"

"Only if it's to Privet Drive."  Her concern is now stamped plainly on her features.

"It is.  I think Harry should have his broomstick." 

And we need to make sure we did the right think letting him go back there on the train.

Minerva clearly understands.  "I will take it down to him, and remind him that it is not allowed to leave personal effects at Hogwarts over the summer."

"Yes, please do.  And discuss with him, while you are there, about a possible memorial service for his godfather."  Yet another mistake.  We should have had some sort of service for Sirius before Leavetaking – if only for Harry's sake.

Minerva's eyes widen and film with tears.  She had clearly overlooked that as well.

Sometimes in the midst of human life we forget to live like humans.

"Could you go in the morning?" I ask casually.  "I want to be sure he is... I mean I need to hear his opinions before leaving for Beuxbatons."

I clench my hands together and berate myself for being silly.  Harry would not do something .... rash.  If he was going to do so, surely he would have done it before now.

Except that now he is away from his friends and protectors, and in the hands of the Dursleys.  And he is just now beginning to feel the full impact of what happened.

I will feel much better after my stern Scots friend informs me that he is safe.  I do have ways of looking in on him from Hogwarts, but they are extravagant in energy and rare resources.  

"Of course, Albus, first thing.  Could you bring the Firebolt to me at breakfast, Iris?"

"Is being no problem, Professor Minerva."  

I rise and hurry to one of my shelves.  As much as I complain about people always giving me books for Christmas, they do sometimes come in handy.  Picking up a slim volume I hastily turn down the edges of some of the pages.

"Here Minerva," I say, handing her the book, "I want you to add these charms to the wards at Privet Drive."

She takes the book from my hands, frowning.  Flipping through the pages, her frown turns to an expression of fright.  "Albus, do you think he would do something like this?"

"No, I don't."  At least I pray to whatever gods there be that he would not.  The charms are warnings for depression and self-mutilation, as well as suicidal actions.  "But we can't afford to let anything slip by."

//Can't serve up a scarred sacrifice, now can we?//

I try very hard not to cry.

"Are you going to be well, Albus?"  Minerva's voice is soft and her expression now one of concern for me.

I try to give her a comforting smile.  "I really don't know, Minerva, but I don't think I'm in immediate danger.  I just wish I had a better idea of what to do."

"I understand, Albus."  Suddenly Minerva looks much, much older.  "After all my years as Head of Gryffindor, I'm at a loss."

"Professors are needing advice."  The statement from Iris catches us off guard.  We had forgotten she was still listening.

"Yes, we are," I acknowledge, hoping that she has some nuggets of house elf wisdom to cheer us up with.

But Iris only wags her head sadly.  "Is being very, very bad.  Iris is wishing silly Dippet had listened years ago."

I can only nod, because I don't trust myself to speak.

"Master Albus is needing to talk with someone who knows a lot about wizardlings – a lot more than Iris or Professor Minerva or even Master Albus."  The elf chews her lip in thought.

"Do you have any suggestions, Iris?"  Minerva's tone is half-humorous, but half-serious as well.

Suddenly Iris brightens.  "Yes, Iris is knowing _exactly_ who Master Albus should talk with!"

"And who might that be?" I ask, my own tone only half-joking.

Iris looks at me gravely.  "If  Iris is telling, Master Albus is giving his word that he is going to bed and taking his sleeping medicine _right now_?"

"I don't think I'll be having any more long conversations tonight, Iris."

"Is Master Albus promising?"  She raises her feather duster to emphasize the question.

"Yes Iris, I promise."

She waggles her duster again.  "Is Master Albus also promising to hold Harry Potter to what house elves have said.  Food and milk and naps?"  Her expression is stone serious.

"Yes Iris, if you can find someone who has more experience and knowledge about young wizards than Minerva or myself, I will hold Harry to the letter of your recommendations."  After all, Harry is much too thin, and milk and naps can't hurt anybody.

"Then Iris is telling you."

And she does.

Minerva and I stand silent in shock.

//Well...I...will...be...damned.//

"Iris," Minerva finally breathes, "to quote young Mister Weasley, you are bloody brilliant!"

"Iris is knowing," the elf responds smugly, "now both of you are getting to bed."


	6. Symphonies of the Soul

Author – Dzeytoun 

Rating – PG 13

Category – Angst/Drama

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: A hearfelt thankyou to Bellatrix for beta-reading this chapter.  Now, who did Iris suggest?  What did Minerva find at Privet Drive?

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Six: Symphonies of the Soul

Sunday, 30 June, 1996 

_1047 GMT_

I finish my breakfast under Iris' watchful eye.  I am very anxious to begin this morning's conversation, but I fear that the good elf would attack me with her feather duster.  And I have to admit, after a long and dreamless sleep the leisurely breakfast is welcome.

I just wish I were not so worried about Harry.  Iris assures me that Minerva set off via floo with Harry's Firebolt right after the staff breakfast this morning.  If she had found anything terribly out of joint, she would have notified me by now.  Still, I can't help but be concerned.

After finishing my third helping of jalapeno omelets (Iris makes them herself and they are truly works of art), I rise and go into my office.  The person with whom I wish to speak  is waiting for me there, as of course I knew he would be.  I settle us both down comfortably and wait silently for him to begin.

"Albus Dumbledore," the familiar dry voice is extremely comforting to me, and I am very glad that Iris had this idea, "didn't I Sort you, oh, one hundred and thirty-five years ago?"

"Why yes, I believe you did."  I can't help but smiling.  The Sorting Hat's sense of humor is an acquired taste, but once acquired it stays with you.

"Surely you don't want to argue with me about it now?  I had enough trouble with you at the time.  I thought I was going to have to get somebody to kick you off the stool!"  The Hat growls amicably at the memory.

//Oh my, it's old time week.//

"Still having identity problems, I see," the Hat continues.  "Why in the name of sanity are you still playing THAT game?"

"I'm not playing," I admit softly.  "He seems to stick around despite my best efforts to get rid of him."

"Don't try THAT with ME." The Hat stirs on my head.  "You haven't been trying very hard and you know it!"

"I suppose not.  He does help to motivate me."

"I should hope so.  But kindly try to keep him shut up.  The last time I had to deal with multiple personalities my seams hurt for a week."

I remember that.  It was a tragic case of a muggle born girl whose parents, members of a fringe religious sect, had her exorcised repeatedly once her powers began to manifest.  By the time she came to us she had a Slytherin and two Ravenclaws in the same body.

"So, what is it you want, Albus?  Something to do with Harry Potter I'd bet my brim!"

"Why do you say that?" I ask, more to make conversation than anything else.

"That boy attracts more trouble than anybody around this castle for the last thousand years, that's why!"  The Hat's growl seems perfunctory.  "Doubtless the reason he's such an interesting case."

I smile again.  Iris was of course correct.  The Hat is the one person at Hogwarts, and almost assuredly in all of Britain, who has more knowledge and experience of wizards than Minerva and me.

"He is that," I allow.  "And it does have to do with him."

"And with you," the Hat rejoinds.

I am surprised at that.  I had not expected to get to that part of the conversation so quickly.

"Are you forgetting," the Hat continues, "that I am probably, by definition, the greatest Legilimens in the world?  Especially when you are wearing me!"

I had never thought of that before.

"Well you should!  I'm not just here to keep the rain off your head you know!"

"I am aware of that," I say, a little testily, "not that you would ever let us form such an opinion.  And would you please wait until I actually SAY something to you before you respond?"

"I suppose I could," the Hat sighs, "if you want to do this the boring, slow way."

"Humor me."

"Well, as I have nothing else to do this morning, I suppose I shall."

"Have I interrupted anything?"  I am sure I have not, else I would have an earful of it by now.

"Not much," the Hat admitted, "I was just beginning to compose my song for the Welcome Feast.  Although I don't know why I bother.  You certainly none of you listened to me this past year!"

I think the message he had delivered at the last Welcome Feast.  It had emphasized that the Houses should come together.  And he is right that no one heeded his advice.

"Maybe you should be even more forceful about that this year."

"I will come up with my own song, thank you very much!"  The Hat actually sounds hurt.  "And you are a fine one to talk!"

"I am quite aware of my mistakes of this year."  Isn't it strange how we can stand to berate ourselves but can never quite come to terms with someone _else_ criticizing us?

"You should be." The Hat is not known for being either kind or patient.  "Such a complete fiasco is rare in my experience, at least short of out and out war."

"That seems to be what we have on our hands now."

"So it is, all the more reason to LISTEN to me for a change.  Last year I thought I made it clear that everyone had to come together.  That means COMMUNICATION in case you don't understand.  But what happens?  Let's see, as I recall you ignored Harry Potter in order to protect him.  Potter in turn broke off communication with just about everybody he wasn't shouting at.  Meanwhile the Houses went their own merry ways.  And now we have open war, a school torn by fear and dissension, a ministry about to come apart, and an entire wizarding community on the point of hysteria from having to face something they were determined to deny and ignore until it killed them – which it still very will may.  Have I missed anything?"

And I thought Severus was snippy.

"Severus," the Hat snorts, blithely ignoring its promise not to respond to unspoken thoughts.  "When you are half as old as I am you can complain about someone being snippy with you."

"And that brings me to what I want to talk about.  As I am sure you can tell, I have had quite a time in regard to Harry and Severus lately."

"Yes I can see that," the Hat's voice is suddenly much calmer and less sarcastic.  "I take it you want to talk over the complexities of the matter?"

"If you would not mind.  As Iris says, you have an immense amount of experience with wizards and their problems."

"Oh yes," the Hat's voice is suddenly soft, "That I do."  Suddenly my mind is filled with images – faces and voices, names and thoughts ---

_a young woman dressed in twelfth century finery, her thoughts filled with apprehension..._

_a blond boy in a cut-down version of Victorian evening wear, trying hard to appear brave while trembling inside..._

_a dark-haired girl wearing a gown from Queen Anne's era, her face passive while dreams of power crowded her imagination...._

_a boy dressed in cavalier fashion, his coldly logical thoughts reviewing the latest theories of magic he has recently absorbed from his beloved books...._

Images, thoughts, faces......

And behind it all a sense of deep, bitter, inutterable sadness.  Loss – loss and partings grown almost too many to number over the centuries.  Yet the Sorting Hat remembered, and numbered, them all.

_Gone, all gone._

"Welcome to my world," the Hat says without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

My mouth suddenly feels as dry as a desert.

"But now to your problems, Headmaster," the Hat's 'voice' is brisk.  "How would you summarize them?"

"Should we go over everything, blow by blow?"  I feel a sense of dread in my stomach.  The last thing I want to do right now is re-live those moments yet again.

"Not necessary.  Your memories are quite vivid.  I just want you to state what you believe is the essence of your trouble."

"I,"  my mouth is definitely dry now, and sticky, "I do not understand..."

Do not understand who?  Harry?  Snape? 

"I do not understand my own feelings."

"Excellent!" The Hat seems to chuckle.  "It takes a very insightful person to reach that particular conclusion.  Now, if it is any consolation to you let me assure you that no one understands their feelings, not really.  In all my thousand years I've never met anyone who truly knows why they feel the way that they do."

That surprises me.  True, I acknowledge that many people, like poor Severus, have simplistic views of emotion.  But I would have thought that explanations were possible.

"Oh, explanations are possible all right," the Hat says, ignoring our agreement again, "but true understanding rarely is.  In your case I take it you want to know why you do not feel guilty for hurting Severus as you have done?  Or at least more guilty?"

"Yes."

"First of all, you do feel guilty at least somewhat or the question would not even arise." The Hat's tone is musing as if it is deep in thought about something.  "Secondly ... have I ever shown you an actual Sorting?"

It's a rhetorical question of course.  The Hat does not forget things.

"No, you have not."

"Hmmm.  I used to show all the Headmasters as part of their introduction to the job.  I found it didn't work well though.  Maybe in this case though .... yes.  Close your eyes and run through a basic Occlumency exercise, if you don't mind.  This will be easier if I don't have to work around a lot of extraneous debris."

//Like me, for instance.//

"And for the last time," the Hat sounds quite exasperated, "would you QUIT that."

I do as the Hat has suggested, swiftly moving through one of the standard progressions for emptying one's mind.  I wonder briefly if this will prevent the Hat from functioning, but let that query go with the rest of my thoughts.  I am also curious as to what this has to do with my question.  But given my own practices of giving people mysterious answers for their own good, I am scarcely in a position to protest.

"Now," the Hat's voice is perfectly clear – so much for Occlumency presenting a problem, "open your mind in this direction."  I let my thoughts ride in the 'path' pointed by the Hat.  I sense something there something  ... a sound.  "Very good, now concentrate on it."

I do and the sound becomes much more distinct.  It is a stringed instrument, a guitar, giving off soft, muted tones as if someone is absently strumming.

"That," the Sorting Hat says, "is our new wizardling.  Where shall we put him?"

_A sound?  How utterly fascinating_.

"It actually isn't a sound.  My own senses are quite unlike yours.  But your mind translates it into a sound – with a little help from me."  The Hat sounds quite amused.  "I find that sound is very useful to me in communicating concepts with your minds.  It is what gave me the idea for my Welcoming songs."

_I can see how._

"Do you know where we should put him?" The Hat asks again.

"No," I admit, totally at sea with this most familiar and yet most novel of traditions.

"Neither do I.  You see Sorting is not a process of analysis, a way of measuring people mathematically and comparing them to charts.  I suppose you thought that is what I did."

"I suppose that I did, yes."

"As you yourself have observed, that is the transfigurations teacher in you coming out."  The Hat sighed, "Not to mention the manipulative old codger."

"I do not like...." I begin to protest.

"I know you don't LIKE manipulating people.  But you have been at it so long that you approach everyone, and every problem, as if it were just a matter of finding the right strings to pull or buttons to push."  The Hat sounds very sad.  "It is one of the great temptations of power – and most especially of wisdom.  The irony is that it turns power into weakness and wisdom into foolishness."

I have had ample demonstration of that the last few terrible months.

"But the thing is – and this Albus is what you tend to forget – that people are not puppets or dolls or machines.  They are balances of subtle and intense complexity.  When you begin altering one element, others inevitably move and change as well.  A transfigurationist approaches an object with the idea that form is different than essence. He thinks that each geometric aspect is to be shaped in a disciplined procedure that takes into account the whole – yes I have heard of the Principles of Synergy – but which ultimately exists as a separate entity.  I know that with living things, this is not the case."

That raises many questions, most of them so potentially painful that I have no wish to broach them.

"So how do you Sort?" I ask, trying to forge ahead lightly.

"And now the man is trying to manipulate a Hat!" The laughter in my head is genuine and mocking and as cruel as any Tom Riddle ever uttered.

"Oh no," the Hat's laugh cuts off as if at a knife-edge, "do not compare me with young Mr. Riddle.  I take no pleasure in pain Albus.  But neither am I the slightest bit sentimental."

"However," the Hat moves on, "I will answer your question.  In order to Sort we will need some standards of comparison.  And the ones I use are those according to which the House's are supposedly modeled."

"The Founders," I say.

"Yes, the Founders.  Who else?  So, let us call them forth."  The Hat's tone suddenly changes, becoming sonorous and forceful, like the voice of a medieval herald.

"HELGA."  Suddenly there is the sound of trilling notes, as if from a flute.  The notes are soft and flowing, each seeming to lie in perfect accord with the next, as if someone was trying to create a sound picture of a hill slope or a flowing stream.

"GODRIC." Horns of course.  Horns playing a strong, challenging melody with bright harmonics – and a disturbingly dark undertone.

"ROWENA."  A violin this time.  It's voice is an incredibly complex theme filled with grace notes like question marks.  Periodically one of the grace notes becomes a base for a riff of astonishing subtlety and development – a riff that collapses to become a new part of the theme and a foundation for yet more questioning notes.

"SALAZAR."  A piano, which is not what I would have expected.  The instrument plays an intricate song, but suddenly it swerves, turning on a single note into an entirely new melody.  Then a seemingly innocent minor chord signals yet another twist.  And so the song circles, or perhaps spirals, in dizzy patterns resembling the coils of snake.

"And now," the Hat continues, "where to put our little one?  Let us hear what he sounds like."  And with that I get a strong sense, almost a vision but not quite, of the Hat reaching forth and _strumming_.  The instrument that is the new student gives off a brave, loud, shifting melody.

"What do you think?" the Hat inquires.

I concentrate.  The notes and patterns seem tantalizingly familiar at points, but nowhere does it seem to quite match one of the Founders.

"Not to worry," the Hat continues, "we are scarcely done.  Now let us transpose this wizardling."  At that the melody suddenly shifts to a flute.

I relax, understanding now what we are to do.  I compare the flute music to that which represented Helga and therefore Hufflepuff.  "No."  I am very definite.  The sound has none of the serenity and confidence of Helga's chords.

"I agree," the Hat says.  "Perhaps Ravenclaw?"

This is tougher.  The music is certainly complex enough, but its grace notes seem too accidental, too derivative, not an integral enough part of the melody.  I shake my head.

"Agreed.  Now let us try Gryffindor."  

This is a much better match.  The vibrancy of the student certainly matches that of Godric as, I am surprised to hear, does the wizardling's dark undertone.  Still, the song seems too shifting, too swirling and twisting.

"I am not sure." I admit.

"At this point neither am I.  Slytherin."  The song twists and shifts all right, but the strength of it seems somewhat out of place.

The Hat allows the tune to bounce back and forth between Godric's horns and Salazar's piano for a few moments.  Finally he says, "It seems to me that Salazar is the better fit, what say you?"

"Agreed."

I hear, as if from a great distance, the Hat's voice shouting, "Slytherin!"

"Now," the Hat continues, "let's try another."  The new sound is guitar again, more complex than the first, richer and more varied, but with a much heavier base line.

Hufflepuff is eliminated quickly.  We dwell on Ravenclaw for a long moment, but eventually decide that, like the first, this melody does not possess Rowena's pattern.  So we are back to Slytherin and Gryffindor.  And once again we waver between.

"It is certainly complex enough for Slytherin," I say.

"Yes," the Hat answers, "but also strong and forthright.  Let us listen a little more closely."

I bend my attention to the music.  And the melody seems to resolve, to become simpler and stronger – even insistent.

"Definitely Gryffindor," I say at last.

"So at is."  In the distance the name "Gryffindor!" echoes outward.

"So, what does that teach you?" the Hat asks.

"I suppose you are trying to tell me that humans are complex, no two alike, and their interactions are unique?"  That seems the obvious lesson.

"Yes, among other things.  Did you recognize the two wizardlings?"

"Should I have?" I ask.  Suddenly I have a strong suspicion.

"Not really.  But I will tell you that the first was Severus Snape, the second Harry Potter."

Severus and Harry!  How remarkable!  How ....

"How similar?" the Hat finishes.  "Yes indeed.  In some ways Harry reminds me more of Salazar than he does of Godric.  In some ways Severus reminds me more of Gryffindor than he does of Slytherin.  But I persist in thinking that I sorted them correctly – especially since Potter was so insistent."

So that was the clarification of the melody!  It was Harry's insistence that he not be put in Slytherin!

"And the lesson here?" I ask?

"That the two of them are more alike than you might think.  They are also more different than you might think."

"That is not very clear," I allow, "but I don't suppose I'm in a position to complain."

"You are not," the Hat sounds stern.  "Besides, people are often confusing and unclear."

"And I must learn to accept this?"

"Better than you do now at any rate.  You must also accept that people are often uncontrollable.  It quite surprised me, frankly, when Potter insisted so strongly on not going into Slytherin.  I was on the verge of Sorting him there when the melody clarified."

I nod.  Learning to accept the chaotic nature of human action has always been hard for me.  Perhaps that is why I am considered such a good leader – my focus is ever to maintain order in the maelstrom.

"If it is not really a melody," I ask out of sudden curiosity, "what is it?"

"Well," for the first time the Hat sounds hesitant, "the sense I use is most akin to the human sense of taste.  I don't often mention it though.  I find it upsets people."

I can see why.  I wonder what the students' reactions would be to knowing the Hat was _tasting_ them.

"Do you suppose I could..."

"No." The Hat is firm.

"I only want..."

"No," he says, "I will not give you a demonstration of what the tastes are like.  I only did that once."

"What happened?"

"The poor man could not look at food for a month."

That certainly does not sound appealing.  Suddenly I think of something else.  "That must have been a slow version of the sortings."

"Oh no," the Hat says lightly, "that was an accurate representation in time as well as process."

"But," surely I'm not getting _that _old, "Harry's sorting took nowhere near that long!"

"Not to you," he says chuckling, "but what makes you think a hat perceives time the same way a human does?"

For the first time, I suddenly have a true appreciation for how different, how _alien_, the entity sitting on my head really is.

"Thank you," the Hat says lightly.  "Now for the last thing."

"There's more?"

"Yes."  He pauses then continues slowly.  "One of my main rules is that I never show anyone their own sorting.  I have found over the years that causes more problems than it solves.  I am almost tempted to make an exception in your case."

"Why should you do that," I ask cautiously.

"Because you must learn not only to accept the complexity of Severus and Harry, but the complexity of yourself."

I am silent for a long moment.

"Do you know that feeling you have been having, of something awakening within you, a monster?" the Hat asks.

"Yes," I say slowly.

"That, Headmaster, is love."

I am stunned.  "How can it be?"

"It can be," the Hat says, his tone sad, "because you have little understanding of love, despite all your talk to Harry.  Your little Riddle voice is right about that."

I take in a deep breath and open my mouth to speak, but can think of nothing to say.

"You are like the wizards in the Department of Mysteries Albus.  Deep in your heart you think love is a force, an energy, something to be put in a room and measured and studied."  The Hat sighs.  "It is not.  It is a living thing.  A thing with wants and needs and desires.  It is a thing that moves, a thing that grows, a thing that fights."

"And how does this effect Harry, Severus, and myself?"

"Because your relationship with them is intimately tied up with the question of love.  Of who you love, and how you love them.  You are afraid to face those questions, Albus.  You once thought of Harry as having a wall around his heart.  You have thought that Severus does not understand true emotion.  Much the same could be said about you."

"Why?"  I am not sure whether the cry comes from terror, or anger, or fear.

"Because you have spent so long wearing masks you have forgotten your true face.  Because you have suppressed your heart so long you don't recognize its voice.  That is why your love manifests as a monster.  It is the only way it can tear its way out of the prison you've built for it."  The Hat suddenly sounds old, oh so very, very old.

"And what must I do?" I ask softly, already suspecting I know the answer.

"You must tear down the walls around your heart.  Only when your own love is free can you attend to others.  Once you have faced your love and understood it, you can help Harry to face and understand his.  It will be very hard.  He is terribly, terribly wounded Albus, and when his love flowers, so will his pain.  But it must be.  He must let the pain out for the love to grow.  As it is he is filled with love, but it is buried and choked by fear and grief and agony.  You must cut away those bonds, no matter how much it hurts.  Only then can Harry ever hope to find the happiness that you want for him so badly."

"And Severus?" I ask softly, a lump in my throat.

"Most of the love in Severus was poisoned long ago," the voice is so infinitely sad it might well be announcing the death of an entire cosmos, which I suppose it is, "but there are roots remaining.  It is possible that something might flower there again.  But once again he must be made to understand his love, and yours.  And that will be painful as well, for your love will never be what he wants it to be."

I want to cry badly.  I had sensed as much.  But I had not wanted to admit it to myself.

"So, how do I do this?"  I ask softly.

"There I can be of little help," he says.  "In the end I am, after all, not human.  I can show you the goal.  For help with the path you must turn to your own kind."

I try to speak, but my breath hitches and I sit quietly.

"And now Albus," the Hat's voice is suddenly bright after a few moments of silence, "if you don't mind, I need to get back to my Welcoming Song!"

"Yes, old friend," I say softly, "you do."  I rise and remove the Hat, placing him back in his accustomed place on the shelf, "And this time we will do well to listen to you."

After my conversation with the Sorting Hat I feel empty and drained.  I sit behind my desk and try not to think of anything in particular.  Fawkes, who is now evidently almost fully recovered, sits on my knee and sings softly.

Love.  I have prattled about love constantly.  And now a Hat tells me I don't know what I'm talking about.

Yes, but it IS a thousand year old talking hat.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

The sound of a muffled bell comes from the upper drawer of my desk.  Fawkes squawks in surprise and I automatically draw my wand.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

It is actually a combination of a ring and a buzz.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

The door behind my desk opens and Iris pokes her head out.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

"Will Master Albus be answering that?" She asks with a smile.

What in the world?

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

I slowly open the drawer.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

Sitting inside is a small silvery object with a green blinking light.  Obviously one of Iris' specially enchanted muggle contraptions.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

I pick it up slowly.  A small door falls open revealing a keypad.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

It's a muggle telephone.

"Pressing the 'answer' key Master Albus," Iris says.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

I press the key and hold the phone to my ear.

"HELLO ALBUS!  IT'S PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL!"

I wince as Minerva bellows in my ear.  In the distance I hear a voice saying something to her.

"Oh, is this all right Albus?" she says in a more normal, although still unnecessarily loud, tone.

"Yes, Minerva, that's fine."  I switch the phone to my left ear and try to massage the ringing out of my right.

"Good, I wasn't sure this would work." Minerva sounds absurdly pleased with herself.

"Yes.  Why are you using a .... a....."

"Is being called a mobile phone, Master Albus," Iris interjects.

"A mobile phone?" I finish.

"Iris gave it to me this morning along with Harry's Firebolt.  She told me to dial this number after I had talked to Harry."

"Very well.  Err, could you wait a minute?"  I remove the phone from my ear and look at Iris questioningly.

"Iris is thinking that since Master Albus is so worried about Harry Potter, this might be a good idea.  Master Albus will keep one phone and Harry Potter will keep the other.  That way they can talk without having to use owls."

"Without using owls?" I repeat, just a little stunned.

"Yes.  Iris is thinking that Master Albus is all the time fretting when waiting for owls to get back, and is worrying the Nasty Tom Riddle will catch them.  Well muggle way is faster, and Iris is betting that no one working for Nasty Tom is knowing how to tap phones."

Now that I think of it, I would tend to agree.  

"So I will have one phone," I say slowly.

"And Harry Potter will have the other.  If Master Albus is wanting to talk with Harry, he is just dialing.  If Harry is needing Master Albus, he is dialing too.  Master Albus will have to be keeping his charged, but Iris has fixed up way to do that using bits and pieces from pretty things Harry Potter broke."

I can see the advantages.  No more having to worry if the Dursleys will let owl messages through.  And Hermione Granger can check up on Harry from her parents' home without having to deal with his hateful guardians.

"Iris was wanting to get phones for Professor Remus and Harry Potter's Wheezey as well, but I am only having the two."  She shrugs her shoulders.  "Can be getting more from muggles if we are wanting them."

Yes, an excellent suggestion.  But for the moment it is just as well that we have the two.  If such a thing fell into Arthur Weasley's hands we wouldn't be able to pry him away for Order business.

"Let me talk to Harry, Minerva," I say putting the phone back to my ear.

"Just a minute Albus."  In the background I hear the sound of a minor argument.

"Hello?'  The voice is definitely Harry's, but it sounds so tired that my heart drops to the floor.

"Yes Harry, it's Albus Dumbledore."

"Hello Professor."  His voice is flat and emotionless, as if he is reading from a parchment.

"How are you Harry?"

"OK."  I hear another minor squabble in the background.  Evidently Minerva took exception to that.  "Not sleeping well."  Harry says finally.

In the background I hear Minerva's voice saying something that ends with "at all!"

"Did you sleep at all last night Harry?" I ask softly.

"No Professor."  He might have been reciting answers from a potions table.

"Would you like us to send you some Dreamless Sleep potion?"

"No Professor.  I'm OK."  That seems a patent lie.

"Are the Dursleys treating you well?"

"All right."  I can almost see the shrug.  All right means they haven't locked him in yet.

"Do you....do you want to talk about Sirius Harry?  With me or Professor McGonagall?"

"No Professor.  I'm OK."  Is he even listening to me?

"Would you like Remus to come over?  Or anyone?"  Please say there's _someone_ Harry.

"No.  I...." he trails off.  I hear a snuffling sound at the other end of the line.  He wants to cry, but won't let it happen.

I think my heart will burst from the aching.

"Is there somebody Harry?"  I press.

"I...no, it's OK."

"NO Harry.  Is there somebody?" I find myself gripping the phone tightly and I deliberately loosen my grip.  I don't know how fragile these things are.

"I don't want to bother anybody," he says softly.

I close my eyes as I hear a burst of remonstration from Minerva on the other end.

"You aren't bothering anybody Harry," I say as evenly as I can, "we are your friends."

"And you can't let The Boy Who Lived go off the deep end, can you?"  Suddenly his voice is filled with bitterness.  I take a sharp breath.

Another burst from Minerva, this time I can almost feel heat over the phone.

"No," I say, "we can't let _Harry_ be in pain."

//Then where were you while he was in the closet?//

Shut up Tom!  I can't deal with you now! 

"Who do you want to see Harry?"  I ask again.  "It isn't any trouble."

"I...." more snuffles.  "If maybe I could talk with..." his voice is trailing off.

"Yes Harry?"  I've had battles with vampires that went easier than this.

Mumbled sound at the other end.

"Yes Harry?" I raise my voice slightly and try very hard not to snap.

"Mrs. Weasley."  He says softly.

Molly, of course.  The closest thing to a mother he has.

I hear soft approving sounds coming from Minerva at the other end.

"Of course Harry.  We will owl Molly right away and have her come as soon as she can."

"Tell her not to take any special trouble."  He says it in a tone that makes it clear he does not regard himself as worth any special trouble.

"It won't be any trouble for her Harry."  And I am sure it won't.  Molly loves him as one of her own.

"Now, is there anything else?"  Fool question but I want to keep him on the line a little longer.

"No."

"We will have you out of there very soon Harry."

"You said that last summer." The bitterness is thick again.

What can I say?  He is right.

"I promise Harry."  I wait for a reply.

None comes.

"Keep the phone with you at all times Harry."

"OK."  His voice is flat and soft.

"I mean it Harry.  If we try to dial and you don't answer, someone will come over."

"OK."  

I feel like shaking him, hugging him, and crying over him all at the same time.

"Tell Minerva I'll be waiting for her.  She can floo directly to my office."

"All right.  Goodbye Professor."

"Goodbye Harry."

I sit down, carefully placing the phone in my pocket and my head in my hands.  I would gladly face Severus three times rather than go through that again.  

//Admit it, you are disappointed he wanted to talk to Molly and not to you.//

_I'm too tired to play right now Tom_.

//Don't worry, he'll come to you soon enough.  The big black puppy is gone, the werewolf is on the edge of his own breakdown, and Arthur already has six sons.  Soon enough your precious Harry will come crawling to you wanting to be patted on the head.//

I don't want him to be hurt.

//Too late.//

A roar announces Minerva's arrival.  She comes over to my desk, standing ramrod straight, marching like a soldier.  Things must have been even harder on that end.

"He isn't doing well Albus.  He hasn't slept."  Her lips press together in a tight, thin line.

"I know.  Maybe Molly can help."  I motion for her to sit.

"I hope so.  I was encouraged when he asked for her."  She shakes her head.  "But he is just staring into space Albus.  I know he is lost in his mind somewhere."

Yes.  And I know where.  In the room with the veil.  Or in this office, when I told him he would kill or be killed.

"What about the Dursleys?"  I almost dread to ask.

"Ignoring him," she says bitterly.

"Well, that may be an improvement."

"Albus..."

"I know," I raise my hand to stop her, "we need to get him out.  First things first.  Let's get in touch with Molly.  Iris..."

"Iris is already writing the note, Master Albus."  She finishes with a flourish and hands it to me for a signature.

"Wonderful!" I sign and hand it back.  "Please see that this gets owled at once."

"Iris is going, Master Albus."  She bows to Minerva and Fawkes and hurries away at top House Elf speed.

"Let's see," I say softly, pulling out some parchment and scrawling some hasty calculations.  "I had planned to have him out by the middle of the month.  That would be cutting it close for the requirements of the magic that guards him, but maybe..."  It is a tricky business.  The ancient magic with which we are dealing is chaotic and little understood.

After all, it is based on love.

Finally I throw the quill down with a hiss.  Minerva jumps a little and stares at me in surprise.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I just hate taking chances with Harry like this."

"I know Albus," she says quietly, "but we must have him out of there!"

"I agree."  I take one last look at the scrawled signs.  "Nine days.  That is the absolute least he can live there without definitely disrupting the magic."  I sigh.  "And I am not at all sure about that."

After all, the Hat had said I have little understanding of love.

"We must have him out!" Minerva's eyes are shining.

"Yes."  I sigh again. "We will have him out on the evening of Monday, 8 July."

"Good," Minerva says, "and if Molly can help, things might be well."

Oh, they won't be well.  But they might not be disastrous.

"In the meantime, I will get in touch with Miss Granger," Minerva continues.  "She can check in on him using that muggle device while you are at Beauxbatons."

"Yes," I say, "and have somebody from the Order stop by every third day regardless. As a matter of fact pull Remus off whatever he is doing and make Harry his special responsibility.  This situation requires a close watch."

Minerva nods.  "I've been expecting Remus to request something of the sort, anyway.  Oh, I asked Harry about a memorial service for Sirius, he seemed to perk up a little at that."

"Good, good.  What say we plan on doing it the morning of the fourteenth?"

"I wish," Minerva looks sour, "I wish that the Ministry wasn't being so stubborn about Sirius'conviction.  It would help Harry if we could have a public ceremony!"

"I know," I say, "but Fudge is being petty and spiteful.  He would still strike back at Harry if he could."

"We will make sure THAT doesn't happen!" Minerva swears sternly.

I rub my forehead.  If there was any way I could put off the trip to Beauxbatons I would.  But things are moving too fast.

There is a tapping at the window.

Minerva and I look at one another in surprise.  There is no way that could be a communication from Molly already.  We both rise and hurry to the window.  When we see the messenger perched on the sill, Minerva lets out a gasp.

"Is that...."

"It is." I say, suddenly feeling a surge of hope.  I open the window and accept the package offered by the creature.  It flies away, Minerva standing at the window and watching it until it vanishes.

I hurry to my desk and open the box.  Inside is one object and a letter in an elaborate envelope.  I tear it open and scan it rapidly.

"Are they in agreement, Albus?" Minerva asks anxiously.

"As much in agreement as we can hope for at this point!"

We look at each other and smile.

"I never thought they would do it."  Minerva shakes her head.

"They will surprise you."  I gather up the package and place it carefully to one side.  I will need it in the morning.

We look at each other, and for the first time in a long while, we both utter genuine, heartfelt laughs.


	7. Matters of the Blood

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Horror

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Sorry it's taken so long.  This chapter just would not go well for some reason.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Seven:  Matters of the Blood

Monday, 1 July 1996

0832 GMT 

I walk to Hagrid's hut through a warm early morning drizzle, filled with misgivings about the upcoming days.  The meeting in France will determine much that will happen in the early phase of the war, and I have a sensation in the pit of my stomach that says we have already waited too long to begin our plans.

Besides, I have spent the night reviewing the implications of yesterday's visitation and message.  While on the surface it seems highly positive, there are deep and complicated issues that may well make me regret what I am about to do.

Hagrid is waiting for me in front of his hut.  He had wanted to dress in his finery for the upcoming meeting with Madam Maxime, but I have persuaded him to stick to his worn but serviceable ordinary clothes.  For one thing he looks much less ridiculous.  For another they are more appropriate for our first stop.

"Top o' the mornin, Professor Dumbledore sir," he says cheerily, "are you ready to be goin'?"

"Certainly Hagrid," I smile and pat him on his oversized bicep.  He winces slightly and I draw my hand away, remembering that his dealings with his brother Grawp tend to leave him in a rather battered state nowadays.

"How will we be travelin', if yer don't mind me askin', Professor?"

I reach into an inner pocket of my robes and draw out an elaborately carved stone, the contents of the package I received yesterday.  "By portkey Hagrid."

"That's for our first stop?" he looks at it suspiciously.  Hagrid vehemently registered his objections to this plan when I informed him yesterday evening.  He looks like he is still not quite reconciled.

"Yes it is.  Now please place your hand on it."

Hagrid grumbles something under his breath but does as I ask.  I smile to reassure him – and myself – and utter "_Portus_."

The familiar grabbing sensation in my abdomen is quickly followed by the sound of water – waves breaking on rocks.  The air smells heavily of salt and earth.  We have landed on the Cornish coast, in a large but apparently abandoned graveyard.  Many of the headstones are overturned, and the grounds are covered with weeds.  Set at regular intervals nearby are large mausoleums, their carvings defaced by decades of wind, rain, and moss.

"Not a very invitin' place, is it?" Hagrid mutters, looking around sharply.

I have to agree.  Not just the graveyard but this whole stretch of coastline seems to be abandoned.  The nearby road is in poor repair, and there are no sounds but those of birds and waves.  Trees crowd into the graveyard at one end, their dark boughs creating a shaded lane.  Motioning for Hagrid to follow, I make for the natural archway created by their branches.

As soon as we enter the shadows I sense the creature waiting.  I stop while it lumbers forward, its wings half spread, arms raised to reveal gleaming talons.  The Hellwing superficially resembles a gargoyle such as that which guards my office at Hogwarts.  But it is not a creature of stone, but rather of muscle and tendon and hide and scale, seeming to combine some of the worst features of bird and bat and reptile.  Its eyes glow redly in the dark; its head is dominated by a grotesque half-beak, half-muzzle filled with teeth.  Judging by the broken fangs and tattered right ear, it is the same Hellwing that perched on my windowsill yesterday to deliver the portkey.  It sniffs at me and smiles a horrid grin. 

Raising one talon the monster points back along the path and growls "They are waiting."  Its voice resembles the sound of rusty hinges forced to move after a long rest.

"Thank you.  This way Hagrid."  I move forward briskly, wanting to get Hagrid away from the creature before he gets ideas about wanting one for the Hogwarts menagerie.  

The path bends and twists its way through the woods, bringing us only a relatively short distance through several hairpin turns.  Rounding on such switchback we find ourselves in front of another mausoleum, this one three times larger than any of the others and carved out of some type of reddish stone.  Another Hellwing is squatting next to the dark entrance.  It also gives us a toothy grin, but makes no move to block our path.  I continue forward, carefully holding my wand at ready. 

The inside of the structure is pitch black and smells of mold and decay.  Summoning a light from the end of my wand, I walk between two rows of stone sarcophagi, their lids cracked and splintered with any carvings long obliterated.  At the end of the building a steep staircase leads down.  With a warning to Hagrid to watch his head and our backs, I move slowly down the steps.

We spiral into the earth for quite a way before coming to a level stone corridor.  At the end of the hall is a heavy metal door standing open.  The space beyond is lit with flickering torchlight.

We enter to find ourselves in a vaulted circular chamber.  More sarcophagi line the walls all around.  Across the circle from where we have entered stands a chair of the same reddish stone as the exterior walls of the mausoleum.  Sitting in it, her posture regal, her expression cold, is a strikingly beautiful woman in a dark crimson dress.  Her skin is so pale as to be almost albino.  Her hair is dark is night itself.  And her eyes are pitch black laced with shifting red shadows.

"Welcome, Headmaster Dumbledore," she offers in a voice whose timber is deep and layered, like some superficially tranquil but incredibly treacherous moor.

"Thank you, Lady Cornelia," I say softly, coming forward to the center of the room with Hagrid at my heels.  "I was pleased that you agreed to speak with me."

"But not pleased to actually be in my presence, I would wager."  She smiles just enough to show the sharp edges of her teeth.

//The woman is most perceptive.//  Tom's voice is its usual sour self.

_If you can call her a woman_.

Perhaps it is better to say Cornelia Ater was once a woman, although that was long ages ago.  No one knows exactly how old she is, and some say even she has forgotten.  What is known is that she came into Britain with the armies of the Roman Emperor Claudius, and that she had already existed for centuries even then.  Some say her ultimate origins lay with the Etruscans, or the Scythians.  Others argue for Greece or Crete.  Wherever she was born, she has not lived, in the usually accepted since, for more than two millenia.  Her power is vast, perhaps surpassed only by Tom Riddle's and my own.  Her knowledge of dark secrets is unguessable. 

And she is as blackhearted and treacherous as a demon from the pits of Hell.

//Set a demon to catch a demon.//

It wouldn't be the worst thing I've ever done.

//No.  It would not at that.//

"I will not pretend that I favor you or your beliefs, Lady Cornelia," I admit.  "But we do find ourselves sharing common interests."

"Or at least possibly sharing them."

I see movement in the shadows to either side.  Hagrid makes a warning noise but I hold up my hand to let him know that I perceive the other presences.  Cornelia's vile mates, I have no doubt.

"Your letter indicated agreement."

"My letter said that I agreed we should discuss the situation."  She smiles, showing her fangs this time.  "But I still find it odd that Albus Dumbledore would want to ally himself with a ragged pack of vampires."

"False modesty ill becomes you, Lady Ater," I say slowly, laying one hand on Hagrid's arm as I feel him tensing beside me, "you have never been known as a friend or admirer of me or Hogwarts."

She laughs at that, a sound like a harp being tortured.  One of her mates, a brutish looking thing with gnarled muscles and a quick, loping step comes to her side and whispers something with a feral smile.  Cornelia laughs again.  "Barac agrees.  He reminds me that there are those among us who remember when your precious school was only a field where Pictish shamans danced naked on nights of the full moon."

"Only fools equate age with worth or youth with vulgarity," I say softly, "and you have never been a fool.  Besides, a thousand years is a worthy time even as you measure it."

"Well said.  Please do sit."  She gestures and two of her consorts bring forth stone benches that they place near where we stand.  Although the benches must weigh hundreds of pounds a piece, the vampires handle them as lightly as pillows.  Nodding to Hagrid, I sit on the one nearest Cornelia's throne.  Grumbling and unhappy, he sinks down on the other.

"I must say, it _has_ been a long time since we spoke, Dumbledore.  And I certainly find your conversation more pleasing than that of the self-styled Dark Lord, or that foul thing that came to us today from the Ministry."

I concentrate hard to keep myself from tensing.  It is very important that I conceal my reactions from the hyperalert senses of these creatures.

"The Ministry indicated they would send a representative.  He has arrived?"  My mind screams to speak of Riddle and the contacts he has had with them, but I refuse to indulge the temptation.  

"Yes, but we refuse to deal with such as he."  Cornelia's lip curls in disgust.

Who could they have sent that even she would find foul?

//I can think of several possibilities.//

"Nevertheless, it is important that we all work together in this crisis," I say choosing my words carefully, "or else we shall find ourselves dominated and destroyed one at a time."

Two of the male vampires burst into speech, using different languages neither of which I understand.  Cornelia listens with the bemused and tolerant smile of a parent with precocious but difficult children.  

"My consorts ask what we have to gain from working with the Ministry?  After all, it is they who force us to live in the shadows and exist on the blood of animals!  Why should we not join the Dark Lord, who promises to give us back the night?"

"Voldemort," I say, pronouncing the name loudly and deliberately, "is not known for keeping his promises."

"Neither is the Ministry." Cornelia observes flatly.

"I am." I look her in the eye trying with all my might to convey a sense of my good faith.

Cornelia stares back.  For a long moment we maintain eye contact, not so much in a duel as in a wary salutation.  By unspoken consent, we both shift our gaze at the same time.

"You are known for keeping your word," Cornelia acknowledges, "at least once it is wrung from you and by your own lights."

//Your reputation precedes you.//

"Which is still better than Voldemort," I reply slowly.  "And besides, many of your kind allied with him in his last war.  What did it gain them?"

"Little," she says, "but neither did those who stood aside gain."

"Then ally with the victorious side, and reap the benefits."

More bursts of conversation.  This time it continues for quite a few moments.  Eventually Cornelia holds up her hand sharply, bringing silence.

"What you say certainly has merit," she acknowledges.  "However, the fact remains that many of our kind find the Dark Lord a more natural friend.  They say that he understands us and our needs.  And that he has partaken of our magics."

//It's hard to argue with that.//

So it is.

But then Cornelia herself surprises me.  Folding her hands, she leans forward and regards me with an intense scrutiny, as if seeing me for the first time.  "But you also have used our magic, haven't you, Dumbledore the Great?"

I stare at her, puzzled.  Behind me Hagrid makes a startled and offended grunt.

Cornelia rises slowly from her chair and moves forward.  As she pushes against the arms of her throne I see that the fingernails of her hands are in fact more like talons.  Coming up with a sweeping movement she pauses only inches from my face.  Her  breathing makes a slightly irregular hissing sound, as if it is a habit rather than a need.  The smell of her breath is like the sweet odor of a decaying corpse.  She cocks her head and inhales through her long nose, evidently savoring an aroma I cannot detect.

"Yes," she says softly, "yes, you have used our magic.  Long ago, as mortals would understand it, but only an instant away to us.  The traces of it cling to you still.  _Gladius Amorae_," her pronunciation is odd to my ear, for she her Latin is not that of the medieval cloister or the Wizarding World but of Caesar's court, "the Sword of Love."

I keep my face calm but my heart is racing.  The charm she has detected is the one I placed on Harry fourteen years ago, the one his dreadful Aunt sealed by accepting him, the one that keeps him safe at Privet Drive.  "I did not know that was your magic."

"But of course it is!" She leans even closer and I almost gag at the smell.  "All things of the Blood belong to us – by nature if not by invention.  And that spell is most certainly of the Blood.  In fact its original, and much better, name was _Mural Sanguisis_, Wall of Blood."

I had known that.  I had not, however, thought of its implications in this context.

"Oh yes," Cornelia continues, sniffing the air again, "whose blood was it?"  She closes her eyes for a moment, then chuckles softly.  "Mother's blood!  Some of the most powerful of all!"  Her tongue darts obscenely against her lips.  "And the sweetest."

Hagrid gives a strangled yell and leaps to his feet.  "You filthy great bat!  How dare yer talk about Professor Dumbledore that way.  He would never do somethin' like that!"

Pangs of remorse, love, and guilt flood me all at once.

Hagrid, you are too good for this wicked world.

"It's all right Hagrid," I say softly, turning to him.  "Calm down."

He glares red-faced at Cornelia, who simply looks back with an expression of amusement.  After a couple of more explosive growls, he settles back onto the bench.

Cornelia smiles almost sweetly.  "Still, I would have to say that the Dark Lord, so called, has more experience of Blood magics than you, Dumbledore.  Yes, and of deeper ones as well."

I think of Voldemort rising resurrected in a graveyard by a ritual in part powered by Harry's blood.  But that brings the image of Harry, helpless and tied to a tombstone.  Harry...

Harry almost died.

Swallowing hard I push the image aside.

I brace myself to take a major gamble.  What I am about to say is a venture into dangerous and difficult territory.  "That is true.  But he has little understanding of Death, and that also falls within your purview, does it not, Lady Cornelia?"

She looks at me in surprise, then throws back her head and laughs loudly, a weird cackle that causes my spine to vibrate in discomfort.  "Say rather Undeath, Professor.  Still, Death is something we pride ourselves on studying.  Why say you that Riddle does not understand it?

No longer "Dark Lord."  I may be making progress.

"He fears it," I reply flatly.  "He fears it more than any other thing.  His entire existence is devoted to escaping it.  How can a man who so fears Death understand you?"

Cornelia looks at me intently, the red whirls in her eyes growing bright.  I brace myself, ready to raise an Occlumens shield against any attempt to penetrate my mind.  But after a moment she turns and walks back to her throne.

"You would not give us back the night." It is a statement, not a question.  She seats herself and waits for my comment.

"No," I acknowledge, "I would not.  But I would work for better understanding between your kind and mine and.." I say as she begins a dismissive smirk, "I would let you continue to exist."

There is a general rustling and hissing from all directions.  Some of her mates shout comments in various fell languages, none of which I quite understand.

"You say that Voldemort would not?" 

"No," I say flatly.  "You are too powerful.  He does not allow anyone to threaten him over the long run, even if only in potential."

//Thus the need to protect your little scar-headed treasure.//

Precisely.

"So you are motivated by our good?"  The question is put in a perfectly normal tone – or as normal as Cornelia's voice gets.  "You are not motivated by the fact that we are not affected by the powers of the ones you call Dementors?"

"That is an important consideration," I admit.

Indeed, that is one major reason Minerva and I were so happy to see Cornelia's agreement to meet and discuss these matters.  Voldemort has held the advantage of initiative for nearly a year – largely due to Fudge's incompetence.  If we can bring the vampire covens onto our side, it will strike a major blow to his base of support.  It will also go far to neutralize the advantage he has by his alliance with the Dementors.

"And," I continue slowly, deciding that I will dare one more throw of the dice, "we knew that you bear little love for the Dementors yourself, Lady Cornelia."

She cocks her head sideways, seeming to stare through the veils of time and darkness.  I decided long ago that one of the sources of the Undead's ability to discomfit is their habit of remaining stone still for long moments, often not even bothering to breath.  So she sits, a statue carved in ivory and draped in red robes.

"It is true," she says softly and at last.  "I have known them of old."

She turns her gaze back to me, her expression an inscrutable mask.  "So, is there any other reason you come to me?  Despite what is often said, I am not the Queen of the Undead in these isles.  I am only one elder among many."

"I am aware of that fact," I say evenly.  "But you are the most respected of all the elders.  All factions heed your advice.  If you decide to ally with our cause, many of the rest will come as well."

"Perhaps not as many as you think.  Those who long to rule the night once more are very powerful.  And they will take their followers to Voldemort regardless of what I say."

"But maybe not all," I persist.

"Perhaps not," she says softly, almost musingly.  After a moment the swirls in her eyes brighten again.  "My consorts and I must discuss this.  You will wait with the filthy thing the Ministry dared to send us.  Aelric!"

I blond vampire with a long braided beard steps forward and motions us to follow.  He leads us down a long corridor that would be completely dark were it not for the light I summon from my wand.  Aelric, of course, needs no light.  Turning right we descend a short flight of moss-covered stairs to enter another torchlit area, this one also a stone corridor.  There is a door in the righthand wall.

As Aelric moves to open the door I slip my hand into my sleeve and pull out a string of amber beads.  The beads are tuned to the wards around #4 Privet Drive, and I make sure I check them several times daily.  Three of them are glowing brightly, and my heart sinks.

Depression, weariness, and grief.

At least the beads that would burn were Harry in danger of physically harming himself, or being physically harmed, are dark.

The vampire swings the heavy door open, looking with naked contempt at whoever it is sitting inside.  "Farcod!" he growls, and spits.

That at least I recognize.  An Old English curse.  Who is it that the Undead abhor so?

For the life of me, I would never have guessed it was Percy Weasley.

He is sitting at a long wooden table that takes up most of the room.  The table is old and battered, stained from centuries of use.  He has a pile of folders and scrolls arranged neatly in front of him, and is sitting ramrod straight, staring into space with the intensity of a mystic.  When he sees us enter, he scrambles to his feet and offers his hand.

"Hmmff," Hagrid observes as the door swings closed behind us.  Giving Percy's hand a withering look, he ostentatiously turns away and strides to the other end of the table (being Hagrid it takes him all of two full steps).  Percy turns to me.

I approach him slowly, making sure I have my amiable schoolmaster expression firmly in place.  His face, so like Arthur's yet so unlike, is set in formal, impassive lines.  His hair is neatly combed.  His suit is neatly pressed.  He looks....

//pompous.//

Yes, indeed, he looks unbearably pompous.

Except that his eyes are wide and bulging slightly, and I note a mild sweat on his brow.  He resembles a man with some kind of fever.  When I take his hand he flinches ever so slightly.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he begins in his usual manner, "it is so good to see you."

"And you Percy," I say brightly, bringing my free hand up to rest on his shoulder, inadvertently causing another twitch, "I hope it turns out better than the last time."

Percy blushes a deep crimson.  The last time he was serving as Fudge's eager secretary in a visit to Hogwarts designed to get Harry expelled.  Instead it resulted in several people lying stunned on the floor of my office and me fleeing in concealment.  However, despite his blush he does not deign to pursue the matter.  Instead, he turns and gestures to the scrolls and files.

"I have brought detailed records for our discussions here and at Beauxbatons," he says.  "But the vampires appear not to be very trusting of the Ministry."  A slight flush again.  He has noticed that it is not only the Ministry, but him personally.

"You are going to be the Ministry's representative at Beauxbatons?"  It is a silly question, since the answer is obvious, but I want to hear the catastrophe confirmed for myself.

"Yes.  I was appointed two days ago and have been preparing ever since!"

//Why don't we just declare war on all the other Wizarding governments of the world and get it over with?//

Tom may have a point.  What idiot appointed Percy to this mission?  And was it malice or simple stupidity?  I refrain from asking immediately.  There will be plenty of time to obtain the information later.

"Affairs at the Ministry are quite busy, I presume."

"Oh my yes!" Percy gives a strange little laugh and flutters his hands nervously.  "Total bedlam!  But we have things under control.  Oh yes we do!"  He seems to be staring into space as he is saying the last, speaking more to himself than me.

//This boy needs to be in St. Mungo's with Lockheart.//

"Minister Fudge has been most energetic!  New programs and initiatives are springing up right and left!  The people who are petitioning for no confidence are totally out of line, totally!"  Yes, he is too bright and too brittle.  Percy is being held together with chains forged from denial.

//Our Ministry's finest.//

"And Undersecretary Umbridge, is she well?  She left us under such hasty circumstances."  Of course I would be hasty too if Peeves were chasing me with a sock full of chalk in one hand and Minerva's walking stick in the other.

"Dolores Umbridge is on recuperative leave.  The Minister thinks it best to re-assign her to less stressful duties.  I believe he is going to offer her the a post as the envoy to Paraguay."

"I have no doubt she will receive the offer with the enthusiasm it deserves," I say, carefully keeping my facial muscles under control.

"Oh, that reminds me," Percy reaches for a scroll and hands it to me, "this is from the Department of Magical Sports and Games.  They have denied your petition to lift Harry Potter's Quidditch ban."

"Is that so?" I ask, taking the scroll and passing it to Hagrid unread.  I am not surprised to be denied on the first attempt.  "It does seem such an extreme punishment, don't you think?"

"It isn't my place to judge," Percy says primly.  Is there just a trace of a smirk around his lips, just a hint of Fudge's unbearable condescension?  "The Department feels that, although High Inquisitor Umbridge may have been harsh, she acted entirely within her authority."

Considering that her authority was essentially unlimited it would have been hard to do anything else.

"Well," I say mildly with one of the shrugs I have carefully perfected over the years, "we will just have to continue the conversation."

"As you like," Percy says, finally taking a seat, "but I think you will find that the Department is unlikely to alter its opinion."

I regard him for a moment as he ostentatiously shuffles his papers about.  Then I sit in one of the chairs (heavy and as old and scarred as the table) near him.

"Tell me Percy, what do you think of Voldemort's return?"

Percy winces at the name and gives a little jump.  He looks at me with just a trace of anxiety in his expression.  "It is, of course, a matter of grave concern.  Yes, we must see to the public safety.  The Ministry is initiating many programs to that effect, as I have said."

"Yes, I know," I smile at him as I used to when he was a prefect what seems like an eternity ago.  "But what do you think of the Ministry's stance for the previous year?"

"The Ministry's stance?" He blinks, looking like an actor in a play that has veered off script.

"Yes.  The denial that Voldemort had returned."

"Oh well," he smiles something I suppose he thinks is benevolent and comforting, when in fact it is the most annoying expression I have seen in many a day, including Severus' sneers, "that was only a responsible and cautious policy.  We could scarcely panic the public with no evidence."

"No evidence?"  I want to allow heat into my voice but I keep it mild.  

"What do yer mean, no bleedin' evidence!" Hagrid's voice is anything but mild.  Percy almost leaps to the ceiling.  "Ya oughtta be ashamed a' yerself Percy Weasley!  Harry Potter was warnin' ya since the end a' the tournament!"

"Well," Percy smooths down the front of his shirt and gives a silly grin, "we can't go basing policy on the word of a boy like that, can we?"

"What the blazes does that mean!"  Hagrid comes to his feet and roars.  I swear the door actually rattles.  "Harry is the bravest, truest soul what ever walked through Hogwarts!  And any that says otherwise is a stinkin' foulmouth' liar!"

"I didn't say he wasn't brave," Percy gulps and goes pale.  "But he does have a history of flamboyant behavior!"

"Such as?" I say softly, reaching up to pat Hagrid's bicep and urge him back into his chair.

"Why, in the tournament!  He went out of his way to save that girl when there was no need!  Clear attention seeking!  The boy can't stand to be out of the limelight for ten minutes!"  Percy tries to sound scornful, but it is pitifully obvious that he is repeating his charges by rote.

"Behavior for which you gave him full points, as I recall," I say softly.

Percy's eyes bulge like he's been slapped.  "Very well then!" He huffs.  "What about in his second year when he ran off to face that basilisk in the face of all reason and common sense!"

"To save your sister," I say evenly.

Percy goes as red as a strawberry.

"Like I said," he continues in a choked voice, "I admit he is brave.  But his judgment can't be relied on.  The poor boy is obviously unbalanced.  Given his childhood with those muggles, we can't expect anything else."

//He has a point there.//

Be quiet.

"And these dreams and visions he has, with all that about a scar hurting, really!"  Percy is calming down now and breathing deeply.

"Those visions saved your father," I remind him.

He glares at me and I see true anger then.  

"I did not say I wasn't grateful!"

"Ya coulda fooled yer family," Hagrid says, "not visitin' and all."

"There were political considerations!" Percy slaps the table with the flat of his hand and grimaces.  Undoubtedly there will be some blisters on his palm from that one.

"And what he pulled at the Ministry," Percy continues.  "I mean, he did get one man killed, after all!"

"THAT is enough!"  My voice is louder than I intended, but I manage to keep it even.  Percy looks at me in surprise.

"Ron and Ginny recovered quite well," I continue in a normal tone.

"Oh."  For the first time he looks distinctly guilty.  Guilty and concerned.  "What were they doing there, anyway?  You see how Potter...."

"I said that was enough."

He bites his sentence off.

"It's called friendship, Percy." I inform him.  "They wanted to help Harry rescue Sirius Black."

"Sirius Black!" Percy begins.  "That's another issue!"

"It is indeed, one we will not open now."  I use my stern headmaster voice for that.  It works well.  Percy presses his lips together and falls silent.

"How is Ron?"  Percy asks finally.

"As I said, he recovered completely."

Silence.

"Your family loves you Percy," I say steadily, trying to convey the truth of it, "they love you and miss you."

He closes his eyes.  For a moment, just a moment, I think I have broken through.

"Why don't they LISTEN then?" he asks bitterly.

"Listen to what, Percy?"

"Listen to how much trouble Potter causes!  Listen to how much damage my father is doing to his career!  Listen to how dangerous it is to get involved with ....."  He trails off.

"With Dumbledore?" I finish for him.

He hangs his head.

Percy.  You are indeed a Gryffindor.  A brave and committed heart.  But committed to a cause that is totally, utterly wrong.

"Sometimes Percy," I say, "rules must be broken for the greater good."

"I am sure every rulebreaker says that," Percy replies bitterly.  "I am sure Harry Potter says that every time he drags my little brother and sister into danger, into situations where they might get killed!"

"Harry did not drag them anywhere," I say wearily.  "They went of their own accord."

"That is what is so dangerous about him!" Percy hisses.  "He makes people follow him like that!"

"He makes people, Percy?"  

Percy nods vigorously.  "Yes.  He's driven Ron mad.  He's got his hooks into his mind!  Ron will do anything for Potter!  It isn't right!  Ron should listen to me!  I'm his brother! Potter's just...just... somebody he met on a train!"

Suddenly I feel so very, very tired.

What can I say?  Can I give the obvious answer, that Ron loves Harry?  For the implication then would be that he loves Harry more than he loves his own brother.  And the problem is that he probably does.

"And me Percy," I ask, "do I drive people mad?"

"Yes," he hisses.  "You drove the Minister to distraction!  You never respected him, never accorded him the deference his position was due!"

Hagrid growls at that.  I suspect he is remembering an unjust stay in Azkaban at Fudge's insistence.

"I suppose you have specific examples in mind?"

"Yes!  The way you humiliated him in front of the Wizengamot this past August when all he was doing was trying to enforce the law!"

"He was trying," I say heavily, "to punish Harry for defending himself against a pair of Dementors."

"There you see!"  Percy nearly crows in triumph.  "Like I say, Potter is dangerous!  Dementors!  Who else gets attacked by Dementors over summer break?"

//This boy definitely needs to be in the bed next to Lockheart.//

The door opens. 

Aelric beckons us from the doorway.  "The Lady has reached a decision."  He shoots Percy a look of pure contempt and then turns, evidently meaning for us to follow.

We move back through the corridors into the circular room.  As Percy enters there is general hissing along with a couple of soft cries of "Farcod!".

Cornelia motions us to the stone benches in the center of the chamber.  She looks at us coldly, then waves a taloned hand as if to brush aside her last doubts.

"Riddle understands us better than you do," she says flatly, "and always will.  Riddle offers us the night.  He promises to free us from the degradation and squalor wizards have forced on us."

Then she sighs.  It seems a sigh of genuine regret.

"But that cannot be.  If he were to conquer you he would turn his eyes to the rest of the Wizarding World, he would not rest until his scepter ruled over all magic."

I nod.

"And then he would pursue the ultimate foolishness.  He would turn on the muggles."  She laughs then, but there is no mirth there, not even dark mirth.  It is a laugh of bitterness and memory.  "He would bring back the fires and stakes, the mobs to hunt us through the streets in the night, the stalkers to expose our lairs in the day.  He would sit on his dark throne and attempt to bend all muggles to his whim, and he would bring it all back, the time before we went into hiding, the time before we managed to finally make them believe we were myths."

Her voice is as bitter as Wormwood.

"Fool of fools!  A wizard ruling the world?  Wizards ruling the muggles?  Already in Salazar's time it was impossible.  Already there were too many of them.  And then they lived in thatched huts and huddled together against the dark, believing that thunder was a message from the gods!  Now Riddle would make war on six thousand million of them, in an age when they have long developed arts and wonders of their own!"

"I said that wizards forced us to live here in squalor.  The sad truth is we would have to live here if there was not a single wizard in the British Isles.  In this time of photographs and microscopes, flamethrowers and nuclear weapons, what chance would a few Undead have if we were exposed?"

"I will go with you Dumbledore.  Not because I trust you.  Not because I hate the Dementors.  Not because we long for a rapport with your kind.  But because Riddle must be silenced before he brings destruction on us all."

She rises with the air of a judge having pronounced sentence.  I come to my feet as well.  My companions follow suit.

"Now, if you would care to join me," she says with one of her feral smiles, "we can all travel together."

She turns to go down a corridor behind her throne.  She pauses and motions for me to walk beside her.  Two of her mates fall in behind us.  Hagrid and Percy bring up the rear.

"I do wish," she says quietly as we make our way down the corridor, once again lit only be wandlight as the vampires need no illumination, "that they had not sent that creature."

"Percy?" I ask softly.  "Why do you despise him so?  I heard some of you call him Farcod – wicked."

"And so he is," she says firmly.  "He has betrayed his Blood.  He reeks of the treachery."

"Does he?" I ask, half in wonder and half in horror.

"Oh yes.  His blood cries out in his veins in anguish.  We hear it, for all things of the Blood are ours."

"So they are," I say softly.

"His presence is an affront!  The air around him is curdled with his foulness!  The treachery to his Blood reeks in our nostrils like carrion smells in yours."

"Oh dear."  I can think of nothing else to say.

"In a more enlightened time we would have opened his veins and released his blood from its misery.  Alas that we have fallen to such a corrupt state!"  

I glance backwards over my shoulder.  Percy is holding his wand high.  In the circle of light it casts, his bulging eyes glitter eerily.  He does not seem to walk so much as to jerk along, starting and jumping at every sound.  His red hair once seemed to me like fire.  Now it seems darker.

Like blood.

I turn and continue walking into the darkness.


	8. The Cruelty of Owls

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N:  Thank you to all my kind reviewers.  Several of you have mentioned that Albus seems a little too sappy in these early chapters.  I think we will see that a large part of the sappiness is a temporary phenomenon. We are, after all, only ten days or so out from the big confrontation scene in OOTP. Albus is still in a state of emotional shock from the horrors of the past year, and from the revelations those horrors brought about. And, as I will begin exploring in a pretty big way with this chapter, the whole state of "fatherhood" or "pseudo-fatherhood" is quite unfamiliar to him. As ordinary reality begins to impress itself upon him once again, Dumbledore will gradually evince a more realistic set of views.  In particular, having to actually deal with Harry, as opposed to just thinking about Harry, will cause him to become more practical and less sentimental.  
  
Yes, Harry will indeed play a major role in this fic - although I dare say it seems unlikely since we are seven chapters in and he has still to make a personal appearance except in the phone call. We are almost done with the first phase of this story. In the second phase (and I should say I'm not sure yet how many phases there are going to be), Albus will have to come to grips with Harry in his present state. It is beginning to become clear to him that he must take action about Harry's mental condition now rather than later. He will also have to deal with a Harry who is by turns adorable, infuriating, baffling, and even hateful -- in short, a teenage male.

  
Finally he will have to come to grips with the idea that if he really wishes to be a parental figure for Harry, it will interfere with certain long-standing habits of his -- namely he will have to realize that he can no longer be all things to all people, and that such a shifting of priorities will not be met with universal favor (which indeed is one of the main themes of my fic "Daddy's Favorite.") Also in this new role he has opened himself for criticism in ways he is not used to dealing with - as will become abundantly clear in this chapter.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Eight: The Cruelty of Owls

Monday, 1 July, 1996

1215 GMT +1 00 

The skies over the Channel were stormy, although I think that was partly an effect that Cornelia's coach carried with her.  We had exited the crypts deep in the woods.  While still in the shade of the stone, one of the male vampires, a dark-haired man wearing wizard robes, pulled a wand from his sleeve and softly exclaimed "_Umbra."_  As we moved out into the sun, it was as if the shadow of the crypt moved with us, shielding the Undead from the harmful light.

Cornelia whistled softly and, in a clatter suspiciously like thunder, the coach appeared.  It was an enormous thing, all gray and black, pulled by a team of Hellwings.  Another Hellwing sat in the driver's spot, holding reins made out of black, jingling chains.  The inside was large enough to accomodate all of us, even Hagrid, with ease.  We settled onto the red plush seats, the vampires on one side, and the rest of us on the other.  With a shriek the Hellwings were in motion and the coach was in the air, surrounded by clouds.  Soon we noted not just thunder, but flashes like lightning sparking from the wheels.

"An interesting form of transportation," I venture.

Cornelia smiles softly and pats the coach with a surprisingly fond and gentle touch.  "It was a gift from an admirer, long ago."

//I wonder who that could have been?//

So do I.  The coach and its magical aura are the type of thing Grindelwald would have found most attractive, and for that reason I cannot make myself comfortable on the firm seats.  It could not have been him, however.  The coach is much older than that.

Hagrid stares out the window sullenly on one side.  Percy sits between the two of us, looking like he's seen a basilisk.  On the opposite side of the coach the vampires sit with the unsettling stillness that only the Undead can attain.

We sit in silence for nearly an hour.  Percy harrumphs on a couple of occasions and looks like he is about to start speaking, but the glares from across the coach keep him silent.

Suddenly there is a sharp wrapping on the trapdoor at the top of the coach.  The Hellwing driver flips it open and snarls something down in a tongue full of hisses and spits.  I wonder idly if Harry, being a Parseltongue, could have understood him.

"It seems that there is an owl making for us," Cornelia translates.  "A rather large, white one."

_Hedwig?  _I reach into my robes to verify that I still have my cell phone.  It is there.  

"It is probably coming to me," I say calmly, not feeling the least bit calm.

Cornelia says something to the driver in his serpent-like language.  The Hellwing spits something back, then laughs nastily and closes the trap door.

"Vargal says that in that case, he won't eat it."

In a few moments, a large oval of soft white feathers pops through the window and drops into my lap.  It is indeed Hedwig.  I stroke her gently and she trills a greeting.

"Hello Hedwig, did Harry send you with a message?"

She shakes her head minutely from side to side.  I see that, nevertheless, she has two letters fastened to her leg.

"Someone else then?"

She nods and holds out her leg.

I unfasten the letters.  Both of them are in identical envelopes.  Both bear the same address:

Albus Dumbledore 

_The Storm Coach_

_Over the English Channel_

And both bear a phoenix seal.

Order business.

I quickly run my thumb over the seal to confirm that they have indeed been handed to the right person before the protective charms on the envelopes cause them to explode.  I look at the two thoughtfully.

"Are you supposed to wait for replies?"

Hedwig nods.

"Should I open one first?"

The owl seems to ponder this for a second, then pecks at one of the envelopes with her beak.

I quickly open it, not worried that anyone else might see its contents.  It will be charmed to insure that none but its intended recipient can see anything but gibberish.

I unfold the parchment quickly and immediately identify Molly's handwriting.  My heart begins to race swiftly.  __

_Has something happened to Harry?_

I quickly pull my ward beads out of my sleeve.  The same three remain glowing.  No others have been triggered.

Putting the beads back I continue with the letter.  It is written in a hurried hand, and I sense myself going pale as I read.

Molly Weasley Harry Potter's Bedroom 

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging, Surrey_

1 July, 1996

_Albus,_

_I hope that your trip is progressing well.  I'm not sure exactly what we can hope for, but any help is better than none.  Give my regards to Hagrid.  Arthur also sends his regards to you and Hagrid, as do the children._

_Now, having said that, I went to see Harry this morning.  I was so glad he had asked for me!  The muggles are dreadful as usual but suitably cowed.  They are even feeding him a minimum amount, for once.  I'm sure the bread and cakes and pies and cookies I brought will help though._

_Harry sends his regards.  Actually, when I asked him if he had any message for you, he just shrugged.  Finally he said, "Tell him I'm still here.  I guess his plan's still going OK, whether he cares about it or not." Which brings me to my next point._

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!  SOMETHING IS EATING HARRY ALIVE!!  HE HASN'T SLEPT BUT A FEW HOURS IN THREE DAYS, AND HE ISN'T EATING EITHER!  HE JUST KEEPS MUTTERING ABOUT SOMETHING THAT HE HAS TO DO AND SITS THERE STUDYING HIS DADA BOOKS.  AND WHEN HE ISN'T DOING THAT HE'S STARING OFF INTO SPACE!

_I MANAGED TO GET HIM – MAKE THAT TRICK HIM- INTO TELLING ME THAT YOU HAD GIVEN HIM SOME SORT OF MISSION OR TASK OR SOMETHING!!  WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERCY AND DECENCY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?!!_

_THE POOR BOY IS SUCH A WRECK I'M READY TO BREAK DOWN AND CRY RIGHT NOW!  AND I WOULD HAVE TO CRY FOR BOTH OF US, BECAUSE I'M TELLING YOU HE WON'T!  _

_WHAT IS THIS PLAN HE'S TALKING ABOUT!  DOES IT HAVE TO DO WITH WHY YOU MAKE HIM STAY WITH THESE AWFUL PEOPLE THAT HATE HIM?  BECAUSE THEY DO, YOU KNOW!  OR MAYBE YOU DON'T SINCE YOU CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO COME HERE YOURSELF!  YOU SAY HE IS PROTECTED HERE BY POWERFUL MAGIC.  WELL, YOU MAY BE PROTECTING HIS BODY BUT HIS SOUL IS COMING TO PIECES!_

_HE WON'T TALK ABOUT SIRIUS OR WHAT HAPPENED AT THE MINISTRY.  ALL HE WOULD DO WAS LET ME HOLD HIM FOR A FEW MINUTES WHILE HE SNUFFLED A LITTLE.  THAT ISN'T A HEALTHY WAY FOR A BOY TO MOURN THE LOSS OF HIS GODFATHER!  I MAY NOT HAVE APPROVED OF SIRIUS ALWAYS, BUT HE MEANT A LOT TO HARRY AND THE BOY NEEDS TO GRIEVE PROPERLY!_

_THEN HE SAID THAT HE COULDN'T COME OVER TO THE BURROW ANYMORE.  HE SAID IT WAS TOO DANGEROUS, THAT HE DIDN'T WANT TO HURT US!  WHAT HAVE YOU TOLD HIM?!_

_THEN HE GAVE ME HIS WILL ALBUS!  HIS WILL!!  HE STARTED TALKING ABOUT DYING.  WHEN I TRIED TO ASSURE HIM THAT HE SHOULDN'T BE WORRYING ABOUT THINGS LIKE THAT HE LAUGHED ALBUS!  LAUGHED!  AND LET ME TELL YOU THE SOUND OF IT MADE ME WANT TO DRAG HIM OUT OF THAT HOUSE AND BACK TO THE BURROW THIS VERY MINUTE!_

ALBUS I WANTED TO SEND YOU A HOWLER BUT SINCE YOU ARE ON ORDER BUSINESS I DIDN'T.  THIS IS AS CLOSE AS I CAN GET!  BUT LET ME TELL YOU THAT IF YOU WERE IN BRITAIN YOU WOULDN'T BE SO LUCKY!  FIRST LAST SUMMER, NOW THIS!  DO YOU ENJOY SEEING HARRY SUFFER?!  

LET ME TELL YOU PROFESSOR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!  YOU HAD BETTER BE READY TO EXPLAIN YOURSELF THE MINUTE YOU SET FOOT BACK IN ENGLAND AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING ABOUT THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WHAT'S RIGHT AND WHAT'S EASY!  YOU MAY NOT CARE ABOUT HARRY ANY MORE THAN YOU WOULD A CHESS PIECE, BUT I DO!

Molly Weasley

By the time I'm finished I feel like I can hardly breathe.  My chest hurts and throbs with each beat of my heart.  

How dare she?!!  How dare she accuse me of not caring about Harry!

//Well, you did leave him in a cupboard for ten years.//

Yes.  And if Molly ever finds out I was responsible for that she'll come after me with her bare hands.

Of course, it would be no more than I deserve.

"Professor Dumbledore sir, are yer all right?"  Hagrid is looking at me with concern written across his face.

I manage to nod.  In my hands the parchment catches fire, consuming its hurtful words in a burst of purifying heat.

DO YOU ENJOY SEEING HARRY SUFFER? 

//Well, do you?//

Of course I don't!  It burns my soul for Harry to be in pain! 

//Does it really?  I would have thought it gratified you.  As long as he's suffering, he will always need Albus the Great to be there.  If he were ever happy, he might actually decide he doesn't like you very much.//

It sounds like he already has.

Tell him I'm still here.

Harry doesn't mean it.  He's tired and grieving and in pain.  He's alone in a house where no one loves him (as Molly reminded me).  

//Keep telling yourself that.  Why should the boy like you?//

No reason really.

//You want him to like you, though, don't you?//

_No, I want him to love me_.

//Good luck.  Now that he knows who he has to blame for his pain, you'll be lucky if he doesn't paper Hedwig's cage with your picture.//

_Harry has made out his will_.  

I want to scream at that.  But I just sit there and stay calm.  I have to.

//Wise boy.  If you're lucky, maybe he'll leave you something.  How about a picture for your scrapbook?//

Hedwig trills softly.  I reach out and stroke her automatically, forcing my heart to calm.

There is still the other letter.

Feeling fearful, but somehow managing to keep my hands from shaking, I tear it open. This time I see Lupin's handwriting.  Closing my eyes a moment to steel myself, I start to read.

Remus Lupin 

_The Living Room_

_#4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging, Surrey_

1 July, 1996

_Albus,_

_While I am writing Molly is upstairs with Harry.  The muggles are hiding in the kitchen and Molly said she was going to have Hedwig bring you a message, so I thought I would send one as well._

_I can't do it Albus.  I can't do what I should do.  I can't do what I want to do.  I can't do what Harry needs for me to do._

_I can't be like Sirius._

_Do you understand that?  Did you ever understand that?  Did you know that when you made me a prefect?  I don't think you did.  I don't think that you understood that setting me to control Sirius and James was like asking a dove to rule over hawks._

_Sirius was a man who fought the world.  He seized life and wrestled with it, never giving up.  Even after twelve years in Azkaban, he didn't give up.  _

_I am a man the world does things to.  You learn that when you are a werewolf, Albus.  Your mistress rides in the sky each night.  And fighting or resisting is like trying to hold back the tide with your hands._

_I love Harry, Albus.  I wish I could be like Sirius.  I wish I could be the father he needs.  The father Sirius could have been, even if he never really had the chance to prove it._

_But I can't.  I know that.  And now Harry knows it too.  Or I should say he's sure of it.  He knew it already, or he would have asked for me and not Molly._

_Well I came anyway.  I stayed downstairs for a few minutes to make sure the muggles wouldn't interfere, but when it became apparent that they were going to stay in the kitchen all day if they had to, I went on up.  He was sitting on his bed looking like he hadn't changed clothes or bathed in the last three days.  _

_Molly was sitting there with him.  She had her arms around him and was trying to talk about Sirius.  He was just leaning against her glassy-eyed.  I've never seen somebody who needed to cry so badly in my life, Albus._

_When he saw me he sat up and held out his arms.  He wanted me to hold him.  And the thing was I knew that if I did, if I sat down beside him and put my arms around him, he would be able to cry.  Don't ask me how I knew that.  I just knew that if somebody who had known Sirius and missed him like I do – like he does – would hold him he could finally let all the sobs out.  _

_But I didn't hold him._

_I wanted to Albus.  Before all Heaven I wanted to so much.  I actually took a step toward him.  I just ached to have him in my arms, to let him put his head on my chest and cry for as long as he needed, as long as I needed.  Because I wanted to cry with him.  I needed to cry with him.  I needed it so badly that my throat was burning._

_But I stepped back.  I stepped back and smiled at him then turned around and walked out._

_You see, I knew if I let him cry in my arms, I knew if I cried in his arms, then it would be too late.  He would start to love me the way he loved Sirius.  He would start to want me to be the kind of parent Sirius could have been.  _

_And I can't do that.  I'm not strong Albus, not like Padfoot was.  While I was standing there my joints were still aching from my last transformation the night before.  I can't fight the world Albus, the most I can do is survive it.  I can't be strong for him like Padfoot.  I would fail him, Albus, the way I failed James and Lilly when I let him go thirteen years without trying to be with their son, the way I failed Sirius when they sent him to Azkaban and I did nothing even though I knew in my heart he was innocent, the way I fail myself when the moon grows full and the transformation comes.  And Harry does not need someone else failing him.  Harry deserves better than that._

Why am I telling you this?  Why am I pouring all of this out to his headmaster?  Because you are the only hope he has, Albus.  Arthur Weasley would take him in at any time, but Arthur has too many children already, and he cannot understand the kind of challenges Harry faces.  You are the only one who can understand what Harry has gone through, what he is going through.  You are the only one who has the knowledge and the strength to help him.  

_And I want you to know that it is not because I don't love Harry.  I do love him.  I love him in my way as much as Sirius did.  But I don't want him to love me the way he loved Padfoot.  And he could fall into that trap.  He is tired and wounded and alone and he could fall into that trap all too easily._

_So I guess what I'm saying is hurry back Albus.  Hurry back as fast as you can.  Because I don't know how long Harry can endure without you._

_Remus Lupin_

I let the paper flare into nothingness and turn to stare out the window at the surrounding storm clouds.  My heart is filled with pity for Remus and worry for Harry and, maybe most of all, with anger at just about everyone.  

Why can't I trust anyone to take care of Harry for even a few days?! 

//You have done such a wonderful job?  Look what happened this year!//

Exactly.  I distanced myself from Harry in order to stave off Voldemort's interest in possessing him.  I thought I could trust others to see to him, and look what happened!  I set Sirius, Remus, Minerva, Molly, Arthur, and Severus all to keep an eye out for his protection, and he ended up tortured, banned, tormented, deceived, and nearly killed!

//Well, he didn't exactly behave very wisely himself.//

That too.  I can't even trust Harry to watch out for HIMSELF when I'm not there to look after him!

//Aren't we being a tiny bit unfair?//

We are being incredibly unfair!  And we don't much care right at the moment! 

The truth is that I thought I could rely on Remus.  Of course he is hurting because of Sirius!  Of course he needs to mourn!  That's why, in part, I thought I could count on him.  He and Harry, I had felt sure, could give strength to each other.  They could help each other heal.  Instead they have each withdrawn behind separate defenses and are glaring out at the world through veils of pain.  

Isn't it enough that I have to carry the weight of the war without any help from our supposed government?  Why do I have to be a psychiatrist too?

//Albus, you have been around adolescent boys entirely too long.  You are starting to whine like one.//

I suppose I am at that.

I just wish my chest would quit hurting, it makes it hard to breathe.

I am distracted from my revery by Hedwig nipping gently at my fingers.  I smile at her. "I am very sorry Hedwig.  I don't have any owl treats with me."

"Here, give her one of these."

I look up in surprise.  Percy is holding out a small bag filled with owl snacks.  

"I carry them around.  Get owls all the time.  Ministry business you know."  He smiles shyly, and for a moment he is just like he was in his fifth year, scared and proud and determined to live up to the responsibility of his shiny prefect's badge.

Oh, Percy, I failed you so badly.

"Thank you, Percy." I give him my approving-teacher expression and take a couple of treats for Hedwig.  "That is a wonderful habit.  I shall have to remember it."  I really am spoiled with Fawkes.  

Pulling a couple of sheets of parchment that have been enchanted for Order use from the inside of my robes, I draw an Ever-Inked Quill from my pocket and hastily scrawl identical replies to Molly and Lupin.

We will speak when I return.  Meanwhile look after Harry and let me know if there is any change.

AD

I can see Molly's face growing redder when she reads that.  Oh well.  I will just have to face that dragon when I get to its lair.

"Take these back to Remus and Molly, Girl.  Oh wait." I pull out another sheet.

Harry,

I am sorry for the brevity of this note, but I am on my way to an important meeting and do not have the luxury of time.  I would like to meet with you on my return in order to discuss your Occlumency training and other issues.  

It is extremely important that you continue practicing.  However, please remember that Occlumency, like all magical disciplines, requires physical and mental health if one is to achieve excellence.  

I want you to begin following the daily activities I have outlined below.  If your aunt and uncle object you are to let me know immediately:

Sleep – 8 hours

Meals and quiet time – 3 hours

Occlumency practice – 2 hours

Other study – 4 hours

Chores and Exercise – 3 hours

Relaxation and Entertainment -- 4 hours

I will enclose a copy of this in letters to Remus and Arabella and ask them to check on you periodically.  You are NOT to regard this as a suggestion, but a firm instruction.  Furthermore I am most serious with regard to the periods of quiet time and relaxation.  If you are at a loss for what to do with this time I suggest you visit Arabella.  I think you will find your time with her to be much more enjoyable from now on.  You might also consider taking some of your meals with her.

I will instruct Madam Pomfrey to provide you with a supply of Dreamless Sleep potion.  You are to use it each evening until otherwise instructed.  Once again, this is an instruction, NOT a suggestion.

I beg you to remember our discussion in my office.  I understand what you are feeling, and although I realize  you will likely regard my letter as an intrusion and a burden, know that this is not for any other purpose than YOUR good.

It will please you to know that you will be leaving the Dursleys' on the evening of July 8th. We will discuss your destination and the rest of your summer upon my return.

I pause.  How to close?  I want to write Love, Albus.  Somehow, though, I don't think Harry will react well to that right now.  Finally I just settle for Albus Dumbledore.

Taking out yet another sheet of parchment (luckily, I always travel with a plentiful supply) I write a quick note to Arabella Fig.  I hope I have not been too forward in making promises to Harry on her behalf, but I think I am safe.  Arabella has complained for fourteen years about how much she has hated having to play the "dotty old cat lady," standing aside and not interfering to alleviate Harry's suffering.  I think she will be glad of a chance to shower some affection on the boy.

Quickly sealing the four letters I smile at Hedwig.  "I'm afraid I've got quite a load for you, Hedwig.  I hope you are not burdened too badly."

Harry's owl looks at the four letters and gives me an expression of pure disdain, as if mortally offended that they might be trouble for her.  I give her another treat by way of apology and tie the letters to her leg, telling her whom they are for.

Just then another thunderous knock comes on the trap door.  Vargal, the Hellwing driver, opens the small panel and spits down another comment.

"Another bird on its way.  Seldom have I traveled with such popular people."  Cornelia's voice is totally flat, and it is impossible to say whether she is being sarcastic or simply factual.  "This isn't an owl.  Vargal says it has colorful plumage and looks like it's trailing fire."  She looks directly at me as she says that.

Fawkes?

Sure enough, the phoenix sails through the window and lands on my knee, trilling cheerfully.  Hedwig bows to him by way of greeting and farewell, then launches herself up and out the window.

"What is it Fawkes?" I ask feeling some dread.  

Fawkes lifts a leg, showing a flat package attached to his forelimb.  It is addressed in Minerva's writing and once again bears the phoenix seal.

I give Fawkes a treat (I carry his favorite concentrated peppermints in the pockets of almost all my robes) and open the package.  Three more letters drop out, along with a brief note from Minerva:

Albus,

I hesitated to send these, but the one from Amelia was marked important so I thought I had better.  I also thought the one from St. Mungo's  might be amusing.  Since I was going to send those two, I included Arthur's letter as well.

I apologize for using Fawkes, but Iris said she thought he needed the exercise.

Minerva

"Did you enjoy the flight, Fawkes?" I ask.

He gives a brief snatch of song, indicating a "yes."  Iris is seldom wrong about his moods.

The first letter is marked "important" and is sealed with the sign of the Senior Judge of the Wizengamot (second in rank to myself as Chief Warlock), Amelia Bones.  The second is from the Recuperation Ward of St. Mungo's.

Dolores Umbridge?  What could she possibly want?

The final envelope is addressed in Arthur Weasley's distinctive handwriting.  The man tried to master the muggle art of calligraphy some years ago.  He failed miserably, but it left him with a habit of making his letters with gothic spikes.

I open Amelia's first.

Amelia Bones

Wizengamot Offices

Ministry of Magic

London

1 July, 1996

Albus,

I am writing to report on two matters.  The first relates to the Wizengamot.  Petitions for a no-confidence declaration on Fudge's ministry continue to flood in.  I know you have not yet decided the best course of action, but I think we have no choice but to schedule a preliminary hearing.  Given that we have far more than the necessary number of petitions, not doing so would constitute as grave a dereliction of our duty as anything Fudge has done.  Very well, not THAT grave, but still I think we have no choice.

Secondly I enclose a petition we have received in the Office of Magical Law Enforcement from a Miss Hermione Granger, one of Harry Potter's classmates.  It makes grave accusations concerning Undersecretary Umbridge and her tenure as Hogwarts High Inquisitor.  Ordinarily we would pay no heed to such hearsay, of course, but given the special circumstances and complexity of the matter, I thought I would forward this to you as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (and Headmaster of Hogwarts) before deciding how to handle the matter.

Sincerely,

Amelia Bones

Senior Judge of the Wizengamot

Head, Office of Magical Law Enforcement

I open the enclosed petition, a brief document drawn up in the correct legal phrasing.

To the Office of Magical Law Enforcement:

I, Hermione Granger, due hereby swear and attest that Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, did at the times below mentioned, commit the following offenses against Wizarding Law:

1) That on an evening of August 1995, she did maliciously and knowingly assign Dementors the duty of attacking Harry James Potter with the purpose of causing grave harm;

2) That on numerous occasions during 1995 and 1996 she did commit assault on the persons of Harry James Potter and other Hogwarts students by use of an illegal quill that causes the party who writes with it to sustain lacerations on the hand;

3) That she did fully intend on the night of June 23, 1996 to perform the Cruciatus Curse on Harry James Potter, being prevented only by intervention.

I hereby request that the Office of Magical Law Enforcement launch a full investigation of Dolores Umbridge for the above offenses.

Attested:

Hermione Granger

Witnessed:

Minerva McGonagall

I see that Minerva was not totally forthcoming with me about what happened when she cornered Hermione on Leavetaking Day.  How terribly interesting.

I slide the letter into my robes, mindful of Percy, who has surely spotted the Ministry seals, staring at me intently.  I open the letter from Umbridge:

Dolores Umbridge

Recuperation Ward

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Diseases

London

28 June, 1996

Headmaster Dumbledore:

It is with a grave heart and deep regret that I write you.  I humbly confess to having been mistaken and overzealous in many of my policies while serving as High Inquisitor of Hogwarts.  It is my wish that we put this tragic affair behind us and work together for the good of the youth of the Wizarding World, and for the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Minister Fudge has asked that I accept the post of emissary to Paraguay.  While I am humbled and flattered by his trust, I believe that my talents would better serve the cause of Light were I to remain in Britain.  I say this from no other reason than a desire to serve.

I realize that we have had many differences, Headmaster, and I grieve that I have caused you harm through my mistakes and incorrect beliefs.  I would like to meet with you if at all possible to discuss how I might make amends and work for the cause of Light here in England.

I have also been told that some of the Hogwarts students, justifiably angered by my mistakes, have begun to petition the government for an investigation.  While I applaud them for their civic virtue and involvement, I think that finger pointing will yield little good at this time.  It is my hope that through your kind intervention they can be persuaded to accept my fervent apology and to give me a chance to prove my worth.

As a first step towards showing my good intentions, I have contacted the Department of Magical Games and Recreation concerning the lifetime bans I imposed on three Gryffindor students this past year.  It is my belief that I acted hastily and in ill-considered anger, and I have asked that the bans be lifted.

Your Humble Servant,

Dolores Umbridge

//I'll say one thing for the woman, she is a superb bureaucrat.//

That she is.  Slippery, unctious, two-faced, and duplicitous to the core.

Strange, she never once mentioned Harry's name.

//Not so strange at all, Albus.  She is trying to get on your good side, and reminding you that it was Harry she persecuted would not be a good tactic.//

It does sometimes help to have an inner Slytherin to talk to.

Placing Umbridge's letter with Amelia's, I open the last.

Arthur Weasley 

_The Burrow _

_Ottery St. Catchpole_

29 June, 1996

_Albus,_

_Have I ever told you I am afraid of you?  It is quite true.  Anyone with much sense is afraid of you a little.  And I have never had the kind of courage that would lead me to face a roaring lion when there is no need.  So I am writing this to you because, to my shame, I should say it to your face but I have not got the nerve.  I've never been one for direct confrontations.  I leave that to Molly._

_But since I am writing and not speaking I can take the time to expound a bit.  It is Leavetaking Day, Albus – or rather the night after Leavetaking Day.  I love Leavetaking Days.  Ever since our children started Hogwarts some years ago, one of my favorite traditions has been a jaunt to the station to pick them up, followed by a happy ride home and a long evening over one of Molly's most elaborate and lovingly-prepared meals.  I often am not able to buy my beloved one's the things I would like them to have, but I try to make sure that the comforts of love and family are never in short supply at the Burrow._

_This Leavetaking Day was very special, as you know.  For one thing, we finally confronted the Dursleys about the way they treat Harry.  I have had a slow fire burning in my belly for years over that, especially since I saw with my own eyes their attitude towards him.  Poor sweet child. I understand Albus your reasons for wanting him to stay with the muggles.   Still I wish you would relent and let him come live with us.  What would one more mouth to feed mean in this house?  And we love him as much as one of our own anyway._

_I am especially grateful to Harry for what he has done for my Ron.  I have always worried about Ron, buried as he is under a pile of older brothers, all of whom are over-achievers in one way or another.  I had hoped he might find his own friends and identity at Hogwarts.  I think meeting Harry on the train was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to Ron.  The love that has blossomed between the two of them has given him the support that he so desperately needed – and that I was never able to provide, what with work, constant financial problems, and the demands of six other children._

_Of course it isn't easy being the best friend of The Boy Who Lived.  I am glad that Hermione is there as well.  Certainly she can be intimidating in her own right, but in the wizarding world magnificent grades don't hold a candle to a lightning shaped scar.  And if I am not mistaken, she regards Ron as something more than a friend – even if Ron doesn't know it yet._

_And yet, I still worry about Ronniekins.  I never call him that of course – and I wish his mother would not use the name so often.  But in my heart he will always be my baby boy.  This year was a very good year for Ron in so many ways.  He became a prefect.  He became a hero on the Quidditch Pitch.  He was one of the heroes who forced Voldemort into the open.  Yes it was a very special year._

_But you see Albus, Ron understands something very important, and that understanding hurts him very badly.  Ron's glory is the glory of reflection, or of absence.  He is able to stand out because he is Harry's friend, or alternatively because Harry is not around.  He is a star to Harry's sun, and he knows it.  He knows even his glories of this year were because of special circumstances.  He knows in his heart that he was made prefect because he is Harry's friend, and because for some reason of your own you thought it best if Harry not wear the badge himself.  He knows he became a hero at Quidditch largely because Harry was banned – and banned for defending our family honor!  He understands this, and it eats at the foundations of his confidence like termites eat at a muggle house._

_The worst part about it in some ways is that the love between he and Harry is so strong.  He loves Harry so much that most of the time he doesn't think to be resentful.  And Harry, mostly, does not begrudge Ron what glory he does get.  You know, I don't think he even remembers most of the time that Harry is the Boy Who Lived.  To him he is just his beloved friend, closer to him than any of his brothers.  I know for a fact that most of the time he does not remember that Harry is rich.  It would be funny if it were not so heartbreaking.  Ronniekins of all my children feels the sting of being poor the most.  He resents it the most.  He struggles against it the most.  And yet I honestly believe that he hardly ever remembers that all of the things he longs for could be his at any time, if he just asked Harry for them._

_But he won't ask, of course.  Ron is too proud for that.  Or perhaps he is too weak.  Perhaps his self-worth could not stand gifts from Harry.  I know Harry worries about that.  Why else would he buy Ron new formal robes and tell the twins to pretend like they are a gift from them?  Oh, Ron believed it – because he wanted to believe it.  But Molly and I knew the truth.  I love all my sons dearly, but the twins are just not the types to be that sensitive to Ron's needs, much less that tasteful and restrained in filling them.  No, those robes were paid for from Harry's vault.  And after seeing the look on Ron's face when he first wore them, I can say that whatever happens in the coming war, Harry Potter will always be a hero to my family._

_And what does all this have to do with you Albus?  I am writing you to ask for the thing dearest to any father's heart.  I ask for Ron's happiness.  I cannot give Ron the confidence he needs, the validation he needs.  You, the mighty Albus Dumbledore, could.  With just a negligible effort you could grant him the strength he needs to hold onto the self-worth he is building so tenuously. Give him a little attention.  Just one brief meeting would do it.  Just one nod from the great Dumbledore – just you and him.  Just let him know that he matters because he is Ron, not because he is Harry's friend.  You could do that couldn't you?  Just fifteen minutes for a sixteen-year-old boy who needs you badly.  Harry would not begrudge Ron fifteen minutes of your affection.  Ron has no aspirations to stand in your affection as Harry does.  Just fifteen minutes, Albus.  I am asking it for my son.  As one father to another, I'm begging you to help before the wound inside Ronniekins gets larger._

_As one father to another?  Yes, that is the other reason that I am writing you Albus.  You hold the happiness of Ron in one hand.  You hold Harry's soul in the other.  And I am afraid, so very afraid Albus that you are on the verge of strangling that soul out of existence in the name of caring for it._

_When did you become a father?  I wonder about that.  I suspect you wonder too.  I first noticed it last year.  It was the week after Harry's encounter in the graveyard.  We had assembled for our first meeting of the Order.  And even as you came into the room I felt it.  I could almost smell it coming from you.  Fear, Albus.  You were terrified.  _

_You had just realized what had happened, I am guessing.  After all the excitement died down you suddenly had a thought.  Harry might have died.  Harry almost did die.  And you became so scared that your very bones ached.  _

_It was obvious for the rest of the summer.  Every time we talked about bringing Harry out of Privet Drive you had some excuse, some plausible reason why we could not do it right then.  And all the time you were sending off waves of fear like some emotional tuning fork.  Not just any fear either.  It was a special kind of fear.  The fear only a parent knows.  The fear that comes when nightmare scenarios crowd into your brain, when visions of your child suffering latch onto your thoughts.  I think you had loved Harry for a very long time Albus, probably since the first time you saw him.  But now you began to truly UNDERSTAND that you loved him.  At it was tearing your proverbial guts out._

_Your life has changed, hasn't it Albus?  I bet that you find yourself watching Harry, unable to take your eyes off of him.  I wager that every movement he makes has significance for you.  I certainly know that you can't open your mouth without talking to him._

_Have you become fascinated by his skin Albus?  Does the thought of bruises or cuts on his flesh make you cringe?  Does the sight of actual blood coming from his skin make you so sick you think you will vomit?_

_You've been cursed Albus.  It's a very common hex, called the "Daddy Curse."  I've been through it seven times.  It is the absolute fascination with your new child.  The inability to take your eyes away.  The terror at the thought of pain coming to this sweet life._

_You are a little unusual in that your new baby happens to be fifteen years old and the savior of the wizarding world.  Other than that you are just like any other bedazzled new Daddy, constantly watching his child, constantly singing his praises, constantly reaching for photos when you meet colleagues._

_You have entered a new world Albus.  You see when you become a father the very order of the cosmos shifts.  Reality reweaves itself.  To be a father is to look on your child and know that this child MUST NOT be hurt, MUST NOT die, MUST NOT suffer.  And not just because of moral imperatives, but because it is against the very laws of the universe itself._

_But the problem Albus, the thing I fear, is that almost inevitably the Daddy Curse becomes just that.  You see in our haste and desire to protect them, we hurt them.  Oh yes we can hurt them badly._

_You would not think it looking at them Albus, but teenage boys are like tropical flowers.  They are wild and vibrant and breathtakingly beautiful.  And they are so fragile the smallest wind can damage them.  For all their strength and loveliness, a teenage boy can be broken in one hand be someone who knows where to apply pressure._

_I know.  I broke one._

_You have done it, haven't you Albus?  I saw that look in your face when you talked about Harry last.  I saw the look on Harry's face when he got off the train.  You wanted so badly to protect him, to keep him from harm.  And you have hurt him badly._

_Oh it isn't a rare thing.  Ask any parent.  Stop almost any muggle on the street and they will have a story about how they hurt their beloved child when they only wanted to protect them.  Yes, it is the most ordinary, plain, understandable thing in the world.  And it makes the Cruciatus Curse seem like a hangnail._

_Welcome to the world of fatherhood, Albus._

_I broke my Percy.  Before all heaven I did not mean too.  I love him so much that to think about what happened that day ... I would rather face a white-hot iron.  But I broke him.  He was the middle child you see.  Neither the oldest nor the youngest.  And that put him in a more insecure position even than Ronniekins.  He tried to deal with it by becoming "Perfect Percy."  Oh yes, I know what his brothers called him, and there was some truth to it.  But underneath it all he was only a frightened, insecure boy who needed to be loved._

_And yet I yelled at him Albus.  I argued and pounded my fist on the desk and said things to him that I wish I could cut out of my brain with a razor blade.  I knew he was making a mistake you see.  I had to protect him.  I had to stop him from taking that course of action.  I had to.  And I hurt him so badly he does not talk to me any more._

_And Percy came from a loving home.  He did not spend ten years under the stairs.  He did not have to live with people who starved him and neglected him.  He was so much stronger and healthier than Harry, and I am so much weaker than you._

_Harry is fragile Albus.  He is fragile and cracked and wounded.  For all his bravery and cleverness and luck he could break into a thousand fragments if not handled delicately.  And you are swinging sledgehammers in his direction.  In order to protect him you cut him off from emotional support when he needed you the most.  In the name of treating him like he deserves you have told him something that is eating at his soul.  I don't know what it is, but I am sure it has to do with the prophecy._

_I am not saying you should not have told him whatever it was.  But I do fear that you have set in place a series of events that you cannot understand.  I fear that one day you will look down at those iron fingers of yours and see only bloody fragments, and then your heart will be rent like it has never been torn before._

_And yes, I worry about Ron in this too.  If you break Harry, Albus, Ron will shatter as well.  Oh, it may not look like it.  But inside him something will die, and my baby boy will become a walking sore._

_I also worry about Ginny.  Despite what she likes to proclaim at the moment, Harry Potter is the constant infatuation of her heart.  She may convince herself differently for brief periods of time.  But in the end the bond forged between them cannot be waved away by shifting moods or emotional games.  If Harry is broken, I think Ginny might die in a way even more profound than Ron.  There is even a chance she might literally perish._

_So as one father to another I'm imploring you, Albus.  Please be careful.  You are the greatest wizard of the age.  You are the champion of light, the greatest headmaster in the history of Hogwarts.  You are the leader of what is good and righteous._

_But when it comes to being a father, you don't know what the Hell you are doing._

_Arthur Weasley_

My eyes burning, my heart thudding painfully, I put Arthur's letter down.

//This doesn't seem to be your morning, Albus.//

No it does not.  For the first time in a very long time, I am at a loss for words.  It's a good thing no one is demanding any this very moment.

"Professor," that is Hagrid, "is something wrong?"

I turn to him, realizing that my expression must resemble that of a man who has just been kicked in a very sensitive place.  I compose my face into my usual calm mask.  "No Hagrid.  Just a lot of news to digest."

Hagrid looks unconvinced, but says nothing.  Percy, on the other hand, is staring into space again.

_I know, I broke one_.

"Your father says hello and that he loves you, Percy." I say softly.

He starts, glances at the letter in my hands, and smiles.  For a moment, it looks almost genuine.  Then the plastic expression of the Ministry official slips over his features.

"Please give him my regards."

I wait, hopeful.

Nothing.

Taking yet more parchment from my pocket (I'm going to run out at this rate) I hastily write a note to Minerva, thanking her for forwarding the messages (although truth be told I am not very thankful).  I also ask her to obtain the Dreamless Sleep potion I mentioned to Harry and to make sure he receives it. To Amelia I write:

_Amelia,_

_Thank you for your note.  I agree that we must have a preliminary hearing.  Whatever the political repercussions, the public must see that the Wizengamot, at least, is sticking to its duty._

_As for the other matter, I will have to consider it._

_Albus_

What now to say to Umbridge?  I know what I would like to say, but usually being politic is more important than venting personal feelings.  Finally I simply write,

_Mrs. Umbridge,_

_I will consider your request._

_Albus Dumbledore_

And what about Arthur.  Here I pause.  How to answer all of that?  Of course I cannot answer it.  Not in a letter.  Not now.

_Arthur,_

_I will of course speak to Ron._

_We will talk of the rest._

_Albus Dumbledore_

Giving Fawkes the replies, I stroke his feathers casually and feed him another phoenix treat.  He looks at me sadly.

"It's all right, Fawkes."  I try to smile, and manage something that resembles one.

Fawkes huffs, clearly unconvinced.  Nevertheless, he launches himself from my lap and out the window.

I am grateful for the silence inside the coach.

Anger, misery, pity, depression, all war inside of me.  

Welcome to the world of Fatherhood, Albus.

I need to put all this aside.  I must put all this aside.  The council to come requires all my attention.

But that last line is stinging in my memory.

You don't know what the Hell you are doing.

And I fear it is only the truth.


	9. Gardens of Death

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and thank you to Panko Piskun for a wonderful job of beta reading.  

TIMING ISSUES: Anzie, you had brought up the question of why the accusation about the Cruciatus curse was included in Hermione's letter of accusation to the Ministry, witnessed by McGonagall, when this is essentially the same issue facing Dumbledore and McGonagall with regard to Harry.  That is a very good question, and it is a matter of timing.  Hermione's letter to the Ministry was drawn up on the morning of Saturday, 29 June, 1996.  McGonagall and Hermione signed it that morning, before Hermione boarded the Hogwarts Express.  McGonagall did not learn of Harry's use of the Cruciatus curse until her meeting with Albus several hours later that same day (and Hermione has yet to learn of it).  The formal meeting concerning Harry occurred that night, several hours later yet.  Meanwhile, Hermione had forwarded the petition to the Ministry as soon as she had a chance that afternoon, following her return home.  As Dumbledore surmised, McGonagall had not told him everything about her meeting with Hermione, largely because in the emotionally charged atmosphere of her meeting with him on the 29th, she did not think of it.  She had thought of it by the 30th, but refrained from speaking as Albus had more than enough on his mind and she knew it would come up soon in any case.

Details of this will soon be revealed in a chapter of my fic, "Daddy's Favorite."  As many themes weave in and out of both fics, I encourage everyone to look at that story of more detail and insights on some events.

The petition arrived at the Ministry on the afternoon of the 29th.  As the Ministry was currently operating under a state of emergency, it could be received (even though the 29th was a Saturday) and forwarded to Albus very quickly, although not in time to reach him before he left for his meeting with Lady Cornelia on the morning of 1 July.  

As to how this shall play out, you are right that it presents many interesting issues – legally and otherwise.  Suffice to say that McGonagall at least is not unaware of the problems.  What she and Albus will do – well, I have to leave something out there for you to continue reading, now don't I?

If you have a sense that things are happening very fast and beginning to slip somewhat out of control, then you understand how Albus is beginning to feel.

CHALLENGE:  Here is a contest for all my faithful readers.  This chapter features an appearance by a famous character from folklore.  The first person to correctly identify the character in a review gains the following prize: You may command that Albus visit a location of your choice in the next two or three chapters.  This location must be someplace that we have not yet seen, either in canon or in this story.  You MUST included your email address in the review to win the prize.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Nine: Gardens of Death

1 July 1996

1332 GMT + 0100 

Of all the Wizarding schools in Europe, Beauxbatons is easily the most beautiful.  The Storm Coach banks over the sculptured and manicured gardens, allowing us a view of the stately palace with its white facades and spreading wings, a magical tribute to the values of reason and balance.  It is a Versailles of dreams, made real in white, gold, and soft greens.

Madam Maxime is awaiting us as we land.  She moves forward at her usual stately pace, her eyes dancing as Hagrid all but bounds out of the coach.

"Olympe!" he roars, moving forward to envelop her in his embrace.  I relax my stern mien and let myself smile freely.

After a moment of whispered conversation, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons comes to greet us, one arm looped around Hagrid's.  "Headmaster Dumbledore, eet eez wonderful to welcome you, sir!"

"And wonderful to be here Madam," I offer, bending to kiss the knuckles of her extended hand.  "May I introduce the Lady Cornelia Ater?"  Cornelia has moved forward, enveloped in her magical shadow.

"Lady Cornelia," Olympe says by way of acknowledgment, bending her neck slightly while her bright eyes took in the vampires, coach, and Hellwings with a faintly disapproving air.

"Madam," Cornelia replies in flawless French, "my consorts Adrian Gripwood," the wizard vampire nods, "and Quintus Flavius Marcella," her other consort, a blond vampire with pronounced facial scars, bows stiffly.

"I believe you know Percy Weasley, representative of the British Ministry of Magic?"  I motion to Percy, who bustles forward like an eager puppy.  Olympe accepts his profuse and pompous words of greeting with her usual dignity.

"And may I present," she says softly and with quick, sharp glance in my direction, "Charles d'Atroce, zee First Zecretary to zee Director of zee _Bureau de Magie_."

"We have met," I say briefly, inclining my head slightly to show that I have received her unspoken message.  D'Atroce, a dark man with a hooked nose and a mask-like expression, bows formally.

Olympe suggests that we retreat inside, doubtless noticing that the vampires are uncomfortable in the bright sunshine, even with the protection of their magical shadows.  We proceed into the building.  Unlike Hogwarts this school is at least seemingly laid out in neat, geometrical configurations.  The entrance hall is a grand space of sweeping staircases and magnificent paintings, the occupants of which call out soft greetings in a variety of languages and accents.  The wings consist of long hallways lined with art and mirrors, from which doorways lead into enfiladed suites of sumptuously arrayed chambers.  We ascend to the second floor and enter one such suite, passing through two marble and gilt antechambers before arriving in a large room dominated by a gleaming table.  The suits of armor guarding the doors come to attention as we pass.

Madam Maxime sits ponderously in an enormous chair at the head of the table.  Another oversized chair to her left is obviously meant for Hagrid.  I settle in at her right with Percy and Cornelia on my other side.  Cornelia's mates take seats along the wall behind us.  The inhabitants of the room rise and call friendly greetings, which we return in kind.

I know most of them, of course.  The muggles like to say that it is a small world, but compared to their nations the Wizarding World is tiny indeed.  Just beyond Percy sits Harald Norn, the Assistant Headmaster of Wyrdheim, a Wizarding school serving the population of Scandinavia.  At his side are Johansson and Tarvik of the Swedish and Norwegian Ministries, respectively.  Just beyond them sits the pudgy figure of Augustus Gelbspader of the German Chancellery.  Opposite us on Hagrid's right I see Ramirez from the Spanish Ministry and Simone Castellon from the Spanish school Estrellas.  Down the table from them are van Derdecken of the Dutch Ministry and Ricardo Narletti representing both the Italian Curia government and Potere Academy.  At the end of the table Salistov, of the Russian Synod, is deep in conversation with a small, gray-haired witch with high cheekbones and a small, tight-lipped mouth.  Catching my gaze, this unfamiliar woman rises gracefully and comes down the table, extending her hand to me as I come to my feet.

"Professor Dumbledore," Olympe says, once again shooting me a warning glance, "may I introduce you the Acting Headmistress of Durmstrang, Elizaveta, the Countess Streltsy."

"I am so pleased to meet you at last, Professor Dumbledore."  Her voice is refined and resonant.  There is something familiar about it, but I can't quite remember where I have heard those tones before.

"And I you, Countess.  I hope that affairs at Durmstrang are proceeding smoothly."  I have wondered often this year how that academy has faired with the disappearance of its former Headmaster, the Deatheater Karkaroff.  Unfortunately the stressful events of this past year left me little time to inquire.

"As smoothly as can be expected, Headmaster."  Her face is as non-commital as her reply.

I smile my "Harmless Old Man" smile at that and watch as she returns to her chair.

Olympe produces her wand and send out a stream of bright sparks to indicate that the meeting is about to begin.  Simultaneously carafes of water, tea, and pumpkin juice appear on the table, along with glasses.

"Welcome, everyone, to Beauxbatons," Olympe says heavily.  "We weel not waste time weeth meaningless speeches."  

Percy seems about to protest at that.  I suspect he has quite a lengthy "meaningless speech" prepared.

"Eenstead I weel ask Professor Dumbledore to take charge of our deescussion."

I smile at Olympe and rise.  I find that being tall is an advantage, but only if I am on my feet.  "Thank you my friends.  As Madam Maxime has said, we have little time to waste.  We are here to discuss our response to the return of Voldemort, the greatest threat to Wizarding Europe, and indeed I believe to the whole world, both magical and non-magical, in fifty years."

They seem taken aback by the bluntness of my comment.  That is well and good.  We have wasted enough time already.  I must impress on them that the time for chatter is over.

Percy clears his throat and makes to rise, but is cut off when d'Atroce comes to his feet and, regarding me coldly, asks, "And are we yet sure that this is the situation we face?"

I let my hand concealed by the folds of my robe tighten convulsively.  I was afraid of this the moment I saw him in the gardens.  "I am quite sure, as is the British Ministry."

Percy starts to talk again when van Derdecken, eyeing the French official calmly, interjects, "I think we have more than sufficient evidence, d'Atroce.  Many of us have thought so for a year now."  He turns his attention to Percy, who clamps his mouth shut and reddens at the implied criticism of the Ministry.  Van Derdecken, a small scar-faced in a long blue coat, looks too fierce to confront recklessly.  Sounds of agreement come from the Scandinavians and, to my surprise, from the usually taciturn Salistov.

"But really, a Dark Lord returned from the dead?"  D'Atroce smiles something that more closely resembles one of Severus' sneers.  "And on the evidence of a hysterical child?  I mean..."

"Professor Dumbledore is hardly a child," Lady Cornelia says, a vulpine grin playing about her lips, "even as my kind understand the term."

There is silence at that.  When I introduce Cornelia to the room, the silence deepens.  Her reputation, and that of her coven, is well known.

"I was speaking of the past year," D'Atroce continues weakly.  "Harry Potter...."

"Is not at issue here."  Countess Streltsy leans forward with a no-nonsense sniff.  "Do you have a point d'Atroce?  Or do you intend to keep on till supper?"  A wave of mocking laughter fills the room, and the Frenchman glares murder down the table.

"I was merely asking if we are positive that it is the Dark Lord, or might it be an impostor?"

"I think that I can safely say we are dealing with the genuine article," I say sternly.  "I would strongly suggest that you take my word for it, unless you want to have it verified from his own lips one of these days."

//Oh, that was a good one.//

It certainly seems to have convinced the Spaniards, who are nodding among themselves.

"I think we can take Professor Dumbledore's word on this matter," Narletti says languidly, "or the evidence of the Ministry attack, if you prefer."

"I am not saying...."

"What are you saying then?" Van Derdecken is plainly annoyed.

D'Atroce throws his hands in the air with a look of long suffering under unjust persecution and sits down.

"What do you expect from the Dark Lord for his next moves, Headmaster Dumbledore?"  Salistov has a look of deep worry on his heavily lined features.

"An excellent question, Mr. Salistov.  I would imagine that Voldemort's inner circle is in a state of some confusion at the moment," in fact, I'm sure of it, thanks to Severus, "but we cannot count on such a state of affairs continuing much longer.  Now that his return has been revealed, Voldemort will move against his favored enemies – muggles, the muggle-born, Hogwarts, and the government.  I'm afraid we can expect rapidly rising tension with numerous skirmishes in the near future.  I also believe that he and his followers will likely attempt some large displays of power very soon.  They will hope to take advantage of the initial terror and confusion following the announcement, and they will want to make themselves seem invulnerable and the authorities helpless."

"Terrorist attacks?" Nerletti asks.

"Yes, along with kidnappings and, I hate to say, assassinations."

"And what of the Deatheaters you have in Azkaban?" Salistov inquires.  "Can you guarantee that they will be held in custody?"

"The Ministry is using every resource at its disposal," Percy finally enters the conversation, his voice high and curiously weak sounding.  "We are confident that the security of Azkaban is as solid as ever."

"In other words, no," Nerletti says mirthlessly.  "Azkaban couldn't hold Sirius Black and Bellatrix Lestrange when the Dementors were on duty, why should it hold Malfoy and the others now?"

Percy's mouth works, but he seems unable to come up with a reply.

"You might be well served," Salistov observes quietly, "to dispose of them while you have the chance."

"They will be dealt with according to Wizarding law," Percy says indignantly.  "We believe in justice in the Ministry!"

//Except for sorry doggies and scar-headed boys.//

"Last time that the Dark Lord rose to power," Gelbspader speaks for the first time, "he had organized cells in most European countries.  Do you think it is the same this time?"

"Excellent question, Herr Gelbspader.  As you know, Voldemort has never truly been dead.  He has been in contact with his followers since his fall.  I strongly suspect that he has continued to organize his activities through those followers. And, to our shame, none of us has been as conscientious as we should have been when it came to uprooting his networks and bringing his followers before the law."

There is a general murmuring at that, but no one openly dissents.  Percy just sits there and blushes even more deeply.  In the wake of Voldemort's fall in 1981, almost every Wizarding government found it altogether too easy to achieve peace and surface harmony at the cost of justice.  Nearly every major nation in Wizarding Europe has its Malfoys, Crabbes, and Goyles.  Gelbspader, for his part, nods worriedly and rubs his hand across his chin in a nervous gesture.

"It seems to me that there should be others represented here," Castellon says softly.  "This is, as you point out, not just a European problem."

"I agree, Senora," I allow, and let myself heave a heartfelt sigh, "We invited the Wizarding State to send representatives, and many of the Asian and African nations as well.  Unfortunately, they saw fit not to attend, although all sent good wishes."

"Even the Wizarding State?"  Castellon's eyes narrow in surprise.  "I would have thought they would have been sympathetic to your request."

"I believe that Governor Turraco would be more supportive if he could," I answer.  "Unfortunately he is caught with problems of his own.  The Wendigo crisis is escalating, and the Wizarding State's resources are still tied down with the Ahuetec affair."  A Dark Wizard in the Yucatan has been attempting to raise the old Mayan gods for some time now – and is showing alarming signs of success.  "Besides, many in the Wizarding State bear us little love."

I hear murmurs of sympathy all around at that admission.  The rupture between Old World and New runs deep among wizards.  Hurts and rivalries the muggles managed to put aside generations ago are still very much alive with us.  In this, as with much else, the muggles are wiser than we are.

"Then we can count on no help from that quarter," Narletti says.  "Or might they yet change their mind?"

"Oh, they will," I answer softly, "If and when they feel their homeland is threatened.  The same with the others.  But for now, we are on our own."

"As always," Salistov barks.  "Very well then.  I say the first thing we must do is agree to root out the Dark Lord's followers, wherever they are.  Deny him support, and his plans will flounder."

A burst of noise greets that.  D'Atroce is back on his feet.  "We can hardly begin imprisoning people on mere suspicion and allegation!"

"No," van Derdecken says grimly, "but you can decide to re-open all those investigations you've let stagnate these past fifteen years."  The Dutch Ministry had, perhaps alone in Europe, shown an astonishing backbone for ruthlessly prosecuting suspected followers of Voldemort after his last fall.  Van Derdecken is probably the only person in the room who could speak so bluntly.

"And there are other steps we could take as well."  I take a deep breath.  This will be hard.  "Voldemort has already begun gathering his former allies.  We know that he has claimed the loyalty of most of the remaining giants," Madam Maxime makes a soft noise of either disgust or dismay, "as well as the Dementors.  We must act quickly to gather allies of our own."

"Meaning," d'Atroce says sourly, "goblins, vampires, werewolves, and centaurs?"

"You could do much worse."  Cornelia's voice is cold as a glacier.  D'Atroce looks at her and gulps noticeably.

Unfortunately, he decides to continue.  "Next you'll be advising us to ally with house elves and muggles!"  There is laughter at that – much more laughter than I would like.

"Both groups have great strengths," I reply as easily as I can.  "The house elves have magics at their disposal that can cow wizards readily enough when they decide to use them, or are free to use them.  And fear of the muggles is what keeps us in hiding, after all."

"You can't be serious!" D'Atroce looks at me in horror.

"About the muggles, regretfully no.  Conditions are not yet right for us to reveal ourselves to them – although in the fullness of time Riddle may leave us no choice.  But short of that – and note that even that must not be totally ruled out – we cannot refuse any possible aid from almost whatever source."

The room breaks out into a cacaphony of argument.  I sink back into my chair, allowing myself to smile.  I have gotten them to start talking to each other.  And that, perhaps, was the best that can be hoped for in an afternoon's work.

2134 GMT +01 00 

Actually, by evening we have accomplished quite a bit more than that.  To my pleasure and astonishment, the representatives have rapidly agreed on the necessity of quickly moving against Voldemort's followers in their home territories, as well as beginning joint plans for defense and counter-initiatives in the event of an attack.  Led vigorously, indeed in a near military manner, by the practical van Derdecken, aided by Salistov's brutal observations and Nerletti's acidic irony, we have even come far with regard to setting up methods of coordination and continued communication.

"They're runnin' scared," Hagrid observes as we sit in Madam Maxime's private parlor, enjoying after dinner deserts.  "It don't take but a littl' fright ta get people off their keesters to do summat."

He is right.  I just wish my proposals for reaching outside of Wizarding ranks for aid had gotten farther.  Cornelia's forceful presence helped wring an agreement from them to approach the vampire covens, as well as the few large werewolf packs known to exist in Europe.  Other than that, they had remained hesitant.

"You have done a wonderful job, Professor," Olympe says from her seat on the couch next to Hagrid.  "I would not have thought eet possible."

I smile at them fondly.  The three of us are alone in the room, as Olympe thinks it wise that we review our progress privately.

"To tell you the truth, I am rather surprised myself," I admit.  "But Voldemort's return has everyone shaken.  I just hope that we don't regret having government representatives here."  I had originally intended for this to be a meeting of school representatives.  But with the public admission on the part of the Ministry, our plans had changed swiftly.

"We hardly have a choice," Olympe observes.  "They would have to be eenvolved eeventually.  And zis eez the best time to begeen."

So it is.

"I am worried, though, about d'Atroce," Olympe continues. "I have neever trusted heem.  I am afraid that zee Bureau eez very corrupt, Albus.  Even more so than zee Ministry."

I also was dismayed to see Charles d'Atroce.  He has been rumored to be one of Voldemort's chief followers in France.  Although no one has ever been able to find solid evidence tying him to actual crimes, his political views are well-known and lean heavily in Voldemort's direction.  Also, his family has a cat's cradle of ties, both personal and financial, to the Malfoys.

"What about the Countess Streltsy?" I ask.  "She seems familiar, although I do not believe we have ever met."

"Hmmm," Olympe says thoughtfully, "I know leetle about her myself.  She eez an areethmancer of note, I am told.  I know she was only recently chosen to be teemporary head of Durmstrang.  The last teemporary head resigned just a few weeks ago."

Arithmancy is not one of my most familiar fields.  I make a mental to note to approach Professor Vector at the first opportunity.

Olympe seems to be thinking about something.  I have noticed her giving me heavy looks all through the day.  "Albus," she says hesitantly, "are you sure eet eez a good idea to eenvolve the vampires?"

"No," I admit slowly, "no I am not.  That is, if what you mean is am I sure that we should be dealing with Cornelia Ater."  I sigh.  "But as I said we must reach out to whatever allies we can, unless we have proof that they would be worse than Riddle.  And Cornelia is our best hope of swinging a large number of covens to our side, at least in Britain."

She nods ponderously.  "I understand.  But eet eez not a good thing, I am thinking.  Cornelia eez Dark.  Not as Dark as .....Voldemort," she says with difficulty, "but steell not to be trusted."

"I don't trust her," I reply.  "But at the moment we have no real choice but to deal with her."

"What da yer think will happen tommorer, Professor Dumbledore sir?" Hagrid asks, looking up from his rapt contemplation of Olympe.

"I don't know Hagrid.  My hope is that we can hammer out some kind of workable framework for continued discussions.  And if we can really get the governments moving on action against Deatheaters in their territories, we will have accomplished more than I had dared to expect."

"Let us hope then," Olympe says smiling, "that your eexpectations were dzoo low, Albus."

"Yes," I answer, "let us hope that."

Tuesday, 2 July, 1996

1441 GMT + 01 00 

As it turns out, my expectations are indeed too low.  By the time the sun has begun to move westward, we have reached specifics on action against Deatheaters, as well as beginning serious discussions of information and force sharing.  It seems that Fudge's reassurances have not been well received in many quarters, although no one has dared speak of the matter publicly until now.  

I have another mission to conduct here, and I see my chance as we eat our lunch.  For today's discussions, we have moved outside into a stone gazebo in the midst of one of Beauxbatons stunning flower gardens.  I am rather worried about security, but Olympe has assured me that the wards of her school, while not so ancient or as strong as those of Hogwarts, will be sufficient to keep out an attack, especially since they were supplemented by forces from the _Bureau de Magie_.  Certainly the gazebo is an attractive place, with a marble floor, a gilded ceiling, and statues of angels bearing spears resting against the interior side of each support column.

As many members of the conference take advantage of their break to stroll through the gardens or explore the interiors of the Academy, I move up to Salistov and ask if he could spare me a few moments.    
  


"How can I help you, Headmaster?"  Salistov regards me with none-too-subtle suspicion.

"I was hoping to prevail on your good offices to arrange an introduction."

Salistov gives me a look of surprise.  "An introduction?  I thought there was scarcely a wizard of note in all of Europe you had not met, Professor."

"Such tales are greatly exaggerated, I assure you.  Besides, Professor Mahalan rarely leaves Finland and my business rarely takes me there."

"Erkki Mahalan?  I would be glad to help if I can."  Salistov shrugs, obviously thinking this to be a minor request indeed.  Professor Mahalan is the foremost expert in Europe on depression in witches and wizards.  But that type of expertise seems to carry little weight with Salistov.  "May I ask what you wish to see him about?  He is very busy and treasures his privacy, so any information I can give would be an advantage."

"It is about having him come to Britain for a while as my guest.  Perhaps he could give lectures at Hogwarts."  It is actually about having him examine Harry, but now is neither the time nor the place to go into that.

"I will pass it along.  I suspect he will find your invitation most attractive.  But you might be better served to speak with Countess Elizaveta."

"Why so?"  

"I understand that Professor Mahalan gave some lectures at Durmstrang this year."

"Is that so?"  _Ye gods, is there not a mind healer in all of Europe who hasn't had contact with nests of deatheaters?_

//Well, given that deatheaters are, by definition, mentally unbalanced, it isn't very surprising that psychiatrists have more contact with them than most.//

"Yes," Salistov continues, "but I'm not sure it went very well.  Professor Mahalan is not well attuned to the, ahem, political trends at Durmstrang.  He might well find Hogwarts much more congenial."

_That is encouraging._

I thank him and return to my chair.  Pulling out my ward-beads, I curse mentally to see that Harry has not improved.  We need to find help as quickly as we can.

The afternoon progresses quickly.  Percy is in his element, and I feel my fondness for him returning.  Say what you will about young Mr. Weasley, he does have a talent for manipulation of detail.  Yesterday's trends continue to develop.  Van Derdecken is clearly our most enthusiastic ally, followed by the Scandinavians.  The Spaniards are cautious and Nerletti evidently hamstrung by the complex political situation in Italy.  Salistov and Gelbspader confine themselves to occasional insightful forays.  To my surprise, considering what Salistov referred to as 'political trends,' Countess Elizaveta also turns out to be a firm supporter of action, although I am not sure whether that is a true commitment or a desire to recoup some of Durmstrang's lost prestige.  Cornelia and her consorts are able to provide valuable advice for contacting the vampire covens and werewolf packs.  D'Atroce sits and glowers, occasionally making a desultory attempt to derail the discussion, but otherwise remaining silent.

I check my ward beads several times during the discussion.  They have remained the same – which is beginning to stir alarm.  Despite all the times I tell myself that anger and depression are natural for a young boy who has lost his beloved godfather, not to mention everything else Harry has had to endure, I cannot still the disquiet welling in me.  _The Daddy Curse_, Arthur called it.  I suppose I have to bow to his superior experience in that area.  Perhaps I am just being obsessive and foolish.  But I will feel better if and when I find someone to help Harry with his melancholy.

I am just looking up from checking the beads for the ninth time since lunch when Ramirez gives a sharp cry and jumps to his feet, fumbling for his wand.  Olympe has been giving ponderous speech by way of summarizing our discussions to this point, and looks haughtily at the Spaniard, obviously annoyed by his bad manners.  Within moments, however, we see what has upset our colleague.  A large formation of black-robed figures on sleek brooms are skimming low over the ground making straight for our gazebo.

Old reflexes can still be swift reflexes.  I raise my wand and shout a shield spell even as the first bursts of light spring forth from our attackers' wands and zip toward us.  Two red blasts spatter harmlessly on my shield as I fall back, aiming to circle and place some of the stonework between myself and the attacking formation.  Unfortunately, as with Hogwarts, strong anti-apparation wards cover the grounds of Beauxbatons.

Ramirez is not so quick.  A blast of power strikes him even as he is raising his wand, lifting him and hurling his doubtlessly dead body a good hundred feet through the air.  Two blasts converge on Madam Maxime, who is suddenly engulfed in a whirlwind of fire.

I raise my wand to shout a nullification spell at flames engulfing Olympe, but catch a movement out of the corner of my eye.  Another squadron of enemies has cleared the roof of the main building and is bearing down on us from behind in a sharp arc.  I drop low to miss two more spells, cursing as twinges of pain from my abused knees remind me that 145 years tend to stiffen one's joints.  I grab a handful of grass and earth, tossing it upwards and yelling _"Typhon!"  _The clods of dirt begin spinning rapidly, forming the core of a small whirlwind that sails amidst the enemy force and sends their brooms spinning in multiple directions.

I duck around the gazebo and fire off three quick stunning spells at the rear of the first formation.  Two of them strike their targets, sending them plummeting to the ground.  The third goes wild. 

I duck back behind a shielding pillar to miss the spell my intended target shoots in retaliation.  I take a deep breath and try to quickly assess the tactical situation.  Most of my companions have spilled out of the gazebo.  Tarvik is lying prone on the ground, a large smoking hole in his back.  Gelbspader is rushing to get behind one of the gazebo's other pillars, one arm limp and bloody.  As I watch van Derdecken and Countess Elizaveta run forward in low crouches, sending spells up against their attackers.  The Dutch wizard fells two with swift scythe-like arcs of energy that he shoots forth with sharp tossing motions.  Elizaveta is moving with quick, efficient strides, her wand flicking from one target to another with disciplined precision.  Two more attackers go down in bursts of blue fire.  

Where have I seen that before? 

Suddenly a bellowing explosion erupts from the top of the gazebo.  I go hurtling backwards as half of the structure collapses in smoke and ruin.  

"_Natare," _I shout, and I immediately slow and float to the ground.  I see yet a third party of dark-robed attackers, this time on foot, rushing toward us.  These, however, are pursued by blue-robed officials of the _Bureau_.

Two enemies have banked sharply overhead.  Their wands are still glowing, probably from the energy of the spells they released to destroy the gazebo.  _"Fulmen!" _I cry, sending balls of shocking electrical charge racing at them.  The nearer of the two catches two spheres on the torso and banks sharply, unconscious.  The farther dives, still receiving a glancing blow from one of the spheres.  He spins, bringing his broom under control with an impressive display of flying skill, and lands safely.  Unfortunately for him, the maneuver gives me more than enough time to aim, and my stunner catches him full in the chest.

I take in the battle in three quick movements of my head.  Van Derdecken and the Countess have effectively disabled most of the attackers on that side.  Just behind the gazebo several of the deatheaters have dismounted.  As I watch two of them walk near a carefully sculpted copse of trees.  With a roar, an infuriated Hagrid, bearing a badly wounded Olympe over one shoulder, appears from the trees and fells them with two swift blows from his free fist.  The remaining attackers are caught between the _Bureau_ forces and a large square of darkness that shields Gripwood, the vampire wizard.

A group of figures dart around the copse, making for Hagrid's unprotected back.  I shout, hurling spells quickly in their direction.  Two of them go down.  The rest veer sharply and dodge into the far end of the gazebo, which is the only part of the structure still standing.  It is a mistake, as I can tell from the glowing red eyes that peer out of the shadows under the undamaged portion of the roof.  They realize their error when, in a couple of breaths, Cornelia and Marcella are among them.  Cornelia moves her taloned hands almost languidly, ripping out two throats.  Marcella produces a short sword from under his cloak – a genuine Roman gladius? – and disembowels one opponent with a short slash.  A quick jab catches another in the throat just as he is beginning a spell, and a backhand swipe beheads a third.  The only remaining deatheater scrambles back into the light.

_D'Atroce._

//You expected anything less?//

The treacherous bureaucrat has a grin of triumph on his face as he raises his wand to fire destroying spells at the undead.

_Fool._

Marcella snaps his arm back then moves it forward with blurring speed.  The hurtling gladius impales d'Atroce neatly through the head.

And that, as they say, is that.  

The _Bureau_ forces round up the remaining deatheaters easily.  Leaving that duty in what appears to be semi-competent hands, I hurry inside to deal with Olympe.  I find her ensconced in an enormous bed in one of the lower chambers of the building, Hagrid holding her hand and looking on with pallor as two healers bustle about her applying charms, lotions, and bandages.

"How is she, Hagrid?"  I ask, placing one hand gently on his shoulder.

"Oh, Perfessor," he glances up and I see tears in his gentle eyes.  "They say she'll be fine, but it'll take a while to heal up all them burns.  Wicked spell, that was."

Wicked indeed, and probably prepared just for the sake of Hagrid and Olympe.  Giants and those of their blood are notoriously resistant to many types of magic, especially stunning spells and other non-lethal forms of combat.

"Do you want to remain here with Olympe for a while, Hagrid?"  

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Perfessor," Hagrid replies with a grateful smile.  "There ain't much to do on the grounds right now, and if yer don't need me for the Order, all I'd need is somebody ta look in on Fang."

"I'm sure we could manage that," I say softly.

After chatting with Hagrid for a few more minutes, I walk back to the entrance Hall.  The surviving members of our group are gathered there.  I see Johansson and Castellon, together with van Derdecken and the Countess.  Percy is sitting alone, his face stained, staring into empty space. The Countess looks over at me and breaks off her conversation with a member of the _Bureau_ forces.  She walks over and smilingly transfigures a guilt chair into a much more comfortable armchair.

As I watch her quick movements, I realize who she reminds me of.  I should be shocked, but I'm too tired.  Copying her example, I transfigure a hideous bench into a more restful seat and sit down near her.

"It seems that d'Atroce weakened some of the wards internally," she says quietly.  "That explains a lot.  I heard Madam Maxime wondering why he had come so early.  It seems he's been here since yesterday."

I am surprised.  However, I remind myself that the defensive spells guarding Beauxbatons are neither as old nor as complex as those over Hogwarts.

"It would appear that the _Bureau_ is going to have quite a scandal on its hands."  I find it hard to have any sympathy for them.

"Yes indeed."  She sighs.

"Have any others survived?" I ask, indicating our companions.

"Yes," she says with a small smile.  "Nerletti and Gelbspader have both survived, although both are badly wounded.  I'm afraid Salistov was killed when the roof of the gazebo collapsed, and Harald Norn got caught be a fire spell like the one they used against Madam Maxime."

"I am very sorry to hear that," I say truthfully.  Norn was a valued colleague and, sour as he was, Salistov made a steady ally.

Van Derdecken approaches us and gives a stiff little bow.  "Professor Dumbledore.  I salute your tactical sense.  That whirlwind spell may have saved us all."

"Skills acquired in far too many battles, my friend.  I had hoped never to see this again."

"As had I," he says gravely.  "We have been talking while you were with Madam Maxime.  Will she recover?"

"Yes, but it will take some time."

"I was afraid of that."  He glances at the Countess and some agreement seems to pass between them.  "We have been talking, those of us in the hall, that given this development planning and coordination must continue immediately.  We have decided to set up a kind of executive committee of you, Countess Streltsy, and I.  Would it be possible for us to adjourn directly to Hogwarts and continue our discussions?"

"Hogwarts?"  That has both advantages and grave dangers.

"Yes.  It seems to be the safest location."

It probably is.  Still, I am wary.  But under the circumstances, how can I refuse?

//It's a word called 'no.'//

"Yes," I say, "that would probably be a good plan.  Will you both accompany me this evening?"

"The Countess will go with you," the Dutch wizard says, "I must make port in Amsterdam briefly.  I will join you as soon as I can."

"Very well."  It appears that Hogwarts will be rather crowded this summer.

Van Derdecken hurries off to consult once again with the wizards and witches from the _Bureau_.  I look at the Countess.

_I might as well be bold.  Subtlety will gain us nothing now._

"Countess," I ask slowly, "was your maiden name by any chance Narodim?"

"Yes," she says with an unreadable look, "Margarite Narodim in fact.  I took the given name of my husband's late grandmother.  It is something of a tradition in his family."

I nod to her.  She is fully aware, of course, of what this implies.

Within two hours we are back in the Storm Coach.  Elizaveta is obviously as interested in it as I, but is unable to pry any more information from Cornelia.  Percy continues to stare off into space.  I try to engage him in conversation a half dozen times, only to receive one-word replies.  Worry for him grows in my mind.  He is obviously in shock, and I do not think the Ministry will be perceptive enough to get aid for him.

That reminds me of Harry.  I resolve to speak with Elizaveta about Erkki Mahalan as soon as possible.  Knowing what I do now, it will be a risk, but I have no choice.

We arrive back in Cornwall under the cover of twilight.  The vampires take their leave grimly.  

"We will consult soon?" Cornelia includes both the Countess and myself in her question.

"Yes," I say.  "I will send you an owl with the details."

"I will tell the Hellwings not to eat it."  Her expression remains fixed, and I have no idea if she is joking.  In any case, whatever we decide, I am not yet ready to give her and her kind free entry into Hogwarts.

_Yet another set of decisions to make_.

As the undead depart, I pull out a return portkey for Hogwarts – a small medallion bearing the Hogwarts seal.  Within a few seconds we have returned to the lawn outside Hagrid's hut.

We walk quickly to the main buildings, the Countess making pleasant comments on the grounds.  I fear that I am rather unresponsive, as the weight of developments begins to press on my mind.  Minerva comes forth to greet us.

"Albus! I am so glad you're back."  She clearly wants to say more, but stops at the sight of the Countess.

I introduce the two of them and ask Minerva to show Elizaveta to guest quarters.  She agrees quickly.  "I will see you in your office, Albus."  It is not a request.

I walk slowly to the gargoyle, feeling very worn.  Entering my office I am greeted by a sight that would normally cheer me, but now only fills me with fear and annoyance.  Alastor Moody, Arthur Weasley, and Remus Lupin are all gathered waiting for me.

"Has something happened with Harry?" I ask automatically, although the wards should have warned me if that was so.

"No, the boy's fine.  Well, at least the same." Alastor produces his flask and takes a long drink.  "This has to do with Snape."

"What about Severus?"  I feel another thread of fear shoot through me.  Has Severus been found out?

Then a second thought.  _If he is trying to cause more trouble about Harry I think I will introduce him to life as a toadstool.  Not permanently, but I am starting to lose patience._

"He sent a message around saying he had some important intelligence," Arthur says.  "He asked that we gather here to talk as soon as you returned."

I am so very tired.  But Severus would not act so precipitously if he did not have good reason.  

"Very well," I say.  "Where is he?"

"Right here, Headmaster."  Snape enters through the door, Minerva behind him.  "My apologies.  I had to check on a delicate potion I have brewing."

"Of course, Severus!  Please everyone sit down."  I reach over and stroke Fawkes, who trills a greeting.  "Minerva, is our guest comfortable?"

"Yes, Albus, but why is she here?"

I quickly explain what happened at Beauxbatons.  They all listen with mounting alarm.

"I doubt that was approved by the Dark Lord," Severus says when I have finished.  "It has the marks of someone overreaching."

"And making a bloody mess of it, too," Alastor growls.

"But are we sure of this woman?" Minerva asks.  "She is from Durmstrang, and that is not exactly the most reassuring of references."

"Oh, there is worse," I say.

They all look at me with expressions of dread.  As well they should.

"Before her marriage, the Countess was known as Margarite Narodim."

Severus and Arthur look at me blankly.  Minerva obviously finds the name suggestive, but looks puzzled.  Alastor, however, understands immediately.

"Do you mean she's _that _Margarite Narodim?"

"Yes," I reply evenly, "that is exactly what I mean.  Countess Streltsy is Grindelwald's oldest daughter."


	10. Anger in the Light

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Well, the challenge got rather messed up be one "anonymous coward" who spilled the beans and did not collect the prize.  The figure in question was indeed van Derdecken, who in folklore was the captain of the good ship _Flying Dutchman_.  I have decided to split the prize between Dorel Amindra and Lady Artemisu as giving the most thoughtful and best-researched answers, with an honorable mention to Aneko Kohana.  In this chapter we will find mention of the locale that Dorel has chosen.  The other(s) will be revealed in due course.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter 10: Anger in the Light

To say that my announcement creates a stunned reaction would be an understatement.  Minerva makes a series of sounds like a muggle missile about to launch.  Alastor curses and stomps around on his wooden leg, his eye spinning even more rapidly than normal.  Remus and Arthur look stunned, and even Severus has gone a shade paler.

"Calmly, everyone, calmly," I say in my schoolroom tone.  Fawkes adds an annoyed burst of song to emphasize the point.  The others settle down almost immediately.

"Surely she can't stay here, Albus!"  Minerva looks concerned and outraged.

"I don't think we have a choice.  She is one of the chosen delegates to the executive committee."  I smile soothingly at my Deputy Headmistress.

"The others did not know who she was!" Alastor growls.

"That is true, and I will not violate her trust by telling them – at least not until she has given me reason."

"Reason!"  Alastor slams down a gnarled fist on the edge of my desk.  "Her bloodline is reason enough!"

"How Slytherin of you, Moody," Severus says in an oily tone, "I thought you were a Gryffindor."

Another period of silence follows Snape's observation.

"The fact is," I say slowly into the quiet, "that neither Margarite nor her sisters have ever given evidence of following their father's ways.  The presumption of innocence applies."

"I remember hearing rumors that Grindelwald had fathered children," Arthur interjects, "but I did not know it had ever been confirmed."

"He fathered several, in fact," I answer.  "Unlike Voldemort, Grindelwald's passions were not confined to power and politics.  He had at least half a dozen paramours during his adult years.  He fathered children by three of them that we could identify.  It was decided after his death not to confirm the identities of his offspring, the better to shield them from unwarranted retribution.  He never married any of his mistresses, and most of his children were still very young.  Margarite was the oldest, but it is not clear how much contact she actually had with her father."

"Who was her mother?" Arthur asks.

"A young Bulgarian witch named Zosima Narodim.  Grindelwald met her while he was researching Dark magics in the Balkans in the late 1920s.  He abandoned her in the early 1930s, but they were in intermittent contact until his death.  I must admit from what we know of her, which isn't much, she had definite Dark inclinations herself."

"All the more reason not to trust that Streltsy woman!"  Alastor is practically beside himself.

"All the more reason to proceed cautiously," I say calmly.  "We need to be very careful.  Fudge has given us a lesson in what happens when one lets fear run wild and rule over reason."

Minerva gives a snort, but I can see in her eyes that she understands my point.  Lupin makes a sour face, but nods.  Arthur finally does the same.

"Still, I agree we must go slowly," I allow.  "Let us take every step to prevent the Countess from discovering sensitive information prematurely.  Now, speaking of sensitive information, what is it you need to tell us, Severus?"

I feel a deep pang of concern as I finally turn my full attention to Snape.  He looks worn and deeply tired.  Indeed, he is so tired that he even forgets to do more than give a perfunctory sneer.

"Thank you, Headmaster.  I am sorry to say that in the last couple of days the Dark Lord has been very active.  His recent defeat in the Ministry has stung him badly and he is now ready to launch a major campaign while his enemies are still in disarray."

_Just as I feared._

I see on the faces of the others that they are having the same thought.  "Go ahead, Severus."

"As you know, the Dark Lord trusts no one completely.  Therefore, much of what I have to say I have gleaned from bits and pieces of conversation and frankly circumstantial evidence.  However, I believe I can say with some confidence that he will launch a three-part campaign in the near future.  The first portion will consist of attacks on highly public targets.  I don't know when these raids will commence, but I am guessing it will be within the next few days.  He has placed that part of the campaign in the hands of Edward Salt, one of his less intelligent and more violent followers."

"Salt," Alastor muses, "the same Salt that has served multiple sentences for smuggling and assault?"

"The same," Snape replies.  "As I say, given the nature of the person involved we can probably expect something unimaginative but brutal.  I suspect the Dark Lord half intends many of the attacks to fail.  He can make martyrs out of some of his more stupid followers while achieving his real goals, creating public fear and uproar, causing his opponents to stretch their forces thin and leave Azkaban poorly defended.  Then he will attempt to rescue Malfoy and company."

"I was wondering when that would be coming," Arthur says softly.

"I think it will probably be at the height of Salt's attacks.  I know most about this, as I am to be part of it."

"You Severus?" Minerva asks wonderingly.  "But aren't you too valuable an asset here at Hogwarts to risk?"

Snape smiles his cold, cynical smile.

_Oh Severus, how did I ever let you come to this?_

//The same way you let Potter come to his crisis.  It was useful for you.//

"The Dark Lord makes it a point to remind his assets that they are his property to use as he sees fit," Severus says.  "He does not want anyone to get too great an idea of their own value."

"Do you think he suspects you, Severus?" I ask, feeling fear for this petty, vicious man.

"He suspects everyone," Snape says flatly.  "But I do not think me any more than any other.  This is just his way of reminding me of my place."

"When is the assault to be?" Alastor interjects, still stomping around worriedly.

"I don't know yet.  Soon.  Bellatrix Lestrange has been placed in charge.  It is her chance to partly redeem herself for what happened at the Ministry."

"And the third part of the campaign?" I ask calmly, my heart racing.  I feel strangely short of breath.

"That is the one I know least about.  I know that he has placed it in the hands of Anne Megeher.  It is something in Northern Ireland."

"Northern Ireland?"  That could be several things, none of them good.

"Whatever it is, it is very important to the Dark Lord.  He is assigning the bulk of the Dementors to that operation.  It has something to do with some muggle records that Megeher acquired in the last few days.  Evidently not very well known documents, as I've looked in both our newspapers and the muggles', and have found only brief mention of a burglary.  It was at a small Catholic priory, St. Brigid's."

"St. Brigid's?" My chest is hurting badly.  "Of County Derry?"

"Yes," Severus says, "Aghadowey to be precise."

I lean forward and rest my face in my palms.  It's all I can do not to let out a groan.

"What's wrong, Albus?" Minerva asks, her voice full of concern.

"If what I think has happened has indeed happened, we are facing a disaster of epic proportions."  I automatically reach for my lemon drops and pop three in my mouth.

"Well, don't keep us hanging man!"  Alastor growls.

"The Priory of St. Brigid is the repository of certain knowledge that could be very dangerous if it fell into the hands of Voldemort.  The fact is supposed to be secret and there are supposed to be many safeguards in place.  Evidently someone has failed badly."

//Nice to know you aren't the only one who can make mistakes.//

"AND?"  Alastor leans on my desk, his eye spinning.

"First we have to ascertain the true nature of events, Alastor.  Some knowledge is best not shared."

//Aren't we falling back into bad habits?//

Maybe I am at that.  Still, I do not speak of my suspicions.

"Contact the rest of the Order," I tell Minerva.  "Tell them we must gather in Aghadowey tomorrow evening.  They can use the floo network to reach the Raven Hotel.  They are to arrive no later than nine in the evening local time."

Minerva nods vigorously.  I can see she has many questions, but she has learned to recognize my expressions over the years.

I fold my hands and rest my head against the back of my chair.  My chest still aches slightly, but I am determined to ignore it.  "Is there anything else?" I ask softly.

There is only silence and shrugs.

"In that case, tomorrow at Aghadowey.  Arthur and Remus, would you stay a moment?"  The others take their cue and leave, Minerva and Severus down the stairs, Moody through the fireplace, still grumbling.

"Arthur," I say first, looking at him squarely, and "thank you for your letter."

"You are quite welcome, Albus."  Odd how I had never noticed that determined glint in his eye.  I, like everyone else, seem to underestimate Arthur Weasley.

"We will speak of it in detail later.  Soon, I promise, but later.  Meanwhile, I will take what you have said to heart."

Arthur is clearly not satisfied, but nods reluctantly.  "I should warn you Albus, that Molly and I have taken that boy into our hearts.  We will not easily forgive anyone who hurts him."

"Arthur," I say softly and trying to keep my voice calm, "you know I would never deliberately cause Harry pain."

"I'm not sure of that, Albus."  I clench my teeth in shock.  "I know you feel deeply for him, but I wonder if you understand what his limits are?  You pushed him too far last year.  Much too far."

//Goodness gracious.  Is there dissent in the forces of Light?//

"Do you really think I want him to be unhappy, Arthur?"  I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"No, I don't.  But the way you act sometimes – I wonder if you aren't more concerned about Harry in the abstract than Harry in the real.  You want him alive, but do you really ever think about the consequences of letting those muggles abuse him?"  Arthur's voice is so ... cold.  The expression in his eyes is not one I've ever seen him wear.  It is fierce, so fierce that he resembles a werewolf more than Remus does.

In my chest the thing that has been dormant for the last few days suddenly rises.  I feel a hot rage burning inside, threatening to explode outward.

//Isn't that fair?  Haven't you even sometimes thought that those 'dark and difficult years' have made him stronger?//

Remus is also looking at me with accusation in his eyes.  He looks old and sick and tired and angry.

"Arthur," I say slowly, using every bit of control I have to keep my voice steady, "I have made many mistakes.  But you yourself have said how I feel about Harry.  Do you think that I would allow him to suffer if I thought I had a choice?"

"When I wrote that letter I did not.  But after what Molly has told me, I just don't know, Albus."  He rises suddenly and strides to the fireplace.  Without a backward glance he throws the powder in and crying out "The Burrow!" is gone.

Remus remains.  He looks so weary, so very weary.  But the set of his jaw is grim.

"So, Remus," I ask, "do you think I delight in torturing Harry?"

"No, Albus, I don't.  But I wonder if you really care what happens to him."

My chest is hurting so badly I think my heart will shrivel.  "How can you say that, Remus?"

"After I sent you that letter, Molly talked to me as well.  What did you do to him Albus?  Why do you have to use a child as your pawn?"

"What did I do to him?"  I feel like snarling but content myself with twisting my fingers together.  "I loved him so much I hurt him.  I loved him so much I lied to him!"

"Then why do you torture him like this?"  His voice is growing angrier.

So I tell him.  I tell him the reason Harry must stay with the Dursleys.  When I am done, the cold in his expression does not lessen.

"So, better to be safe than sorry?  Better to let muggles abuse him than let Sirius love him?  Thank you Albus.  And thank you for letting Sirius storm off that night.  Twelve years in Azkaban, courtesy of your caution."  I think for a moment Remus is going to transform right in front of me, even though the moon is not full.  He has pulled back his lips in a canine snarl, and his nose twitches like he has caught the scent of prey.

"I have said that I have made many grievous mistakes, Remus.  What I did that night was probably the worst.  And yet, what will you do?  You who proclaims so loudly he cannot be a father for Harry?"  I am yelling now, and I don't care.

Remus has surged to his feet and I to mine.  We glare across my desk and for the first time in a very long while, I feel like punching someone.

RIIIIIIIING.

The sound cuts through the tense air and for a moment I don't recognize it.  Then it strikes me.

RIIIIIIIING.

The phone that Iris gave me.  Harry is calling.

Ignoring Remus' surprised look, I pull the phone from the inside of my robes and press the press it to my ear.  "Hello, is that you, Harry?"

"Yes, Professor."  His voice is flat and toneless.

"It is good to hear from you.  How are you?"

"I'm OK.  But I had another vision."

_In that case you are not well_.  I grip the phone and feel my fingers trembling.

"A vision about Voldemort?"  Remus gasps but I hold up one finger for him to be patient.

"Yes."  Harry's voice is tight, implying that he is trying very hard not to snap at what he considers an idiotic question.  "He was talking to some Irish deatheater.  Something about some book they had gotten.  He said it had the correct maps and words to pass through the spells of the Mag Sleacht, whatever that is."

"It is a very bad thing, Harry."

"So I don't need to know about it right?  Just practice Occlumency and stay in this damned house until somebody says I can go out and play!"  His tone is suddenly filled with bitterness and anger.

"Harry," I say in a tone that is stern despite my intentions, "your attitude does not help matters."

"My attitude!"  He sounds almost as angry as he did in my office.  "It's all my fault?  I'm just supposed to sit here in the bosom of my loving family and think about...what happened?"

"Harry, I have already explained why you need to be there.  It is not something I find pleasing, either."

A sullen silence.  I can almost hear the thoughts – _You aren't here.  You didn't stay in a closet for 10 years.  You didn't get locked in a room like a criminal._

"Are you following the schedule I sent?" I ask in a more normal tone.

A mumble.

"What, Harry?"

"IsaidUncleVernondoesn'tlikeitandwantsmetoworkaroundthegarden."

It takes me a moment to unpack that.  "I told you to inform me if they objected."

"You've been away."  Was there a faint note of accusation in that?

"I'm sorry, Harry.  You are quite right."

"'S'Okay."  His tone implies that it is not.

"Are you using the dreamless sleep potion?"

"Yes."  A weary sigh.

Obviously the dose must be increased again.  This is indeed worrying.

"Harry, Remus and I want to visit you tomorrow afternoon.  I'll get in touch with Mrs. Figg and have her invite you over.  We will see you around noon.

"You don't have to bother."  Bitterness fills his voice.

"I disagree, Harry.  We need to see about your progress in Occlumency and other things."

"OK.  I'll perform for you."

"Harry!" I let my annoyance slip into my voice.  "The importance of this has been explained to you.  I will be most disappointed if I find you are taking it lightly!"

"Okay."  Harry sounds slightly surprised and thankfully a little chastened.  I hate to be stern with him but this is getting out of hand.

"Has anything else happened, Harry?"

"No.  No Dementors so far."  Is that actually a little grim humor?  Or am I just hoping?

"Good.  Remus and I will see you at Arabella's at noon.  Please inform your Uncle I will speak to him tomorrow."

"He won't like it."  I am pleased that Harry simply states that as fact, without a trace of fear.

"That is unfortunate.  Should I send an owl?"  Of course, I could just get the number and phone.  I am beginning to catch on to this muggle way of doing things.

"No.  I'll tell him.  He's been all right lately."

No doubt due to the Order's threats.  At least that seems to be working out.

"Very well.  Goodbye, Harry."

"Bye." The phone falls silent.

Remus is looking at me, still angry but obviously not raging.  "We are to meet Harry at noon?"

"Yes, at Arabella's.  Whatever else you have, put it off.  This takes first priority.  Also I would like you to accompany me to the Ministry tomorrow."

"Why?"  His eyes narrow is suspicion.

Why can't anybody trust me?

//They know you too well.//

"We have some business there – Order business."

"I am not sure I am the best representative of the Order with regard to the Ministry.  Wouldn't Arthur be better?"

"Arthur's position at his job is still delicate and will be until we can determine what is going to happen about Fudge.  Meanwhile, we need to persuade the Ministry that new times are on the horizon."

"Oh.  You want me for a statement."  His voice is as bitter as Harry's.

_I'm surrounded by adolescents._

"I want you for many reasons, Remus.  For your advice, your reasoning skills, your experience, and yes as a statement.  If we want Wizarding society to become more open, we must set examples whenever we can."

Lupin looks disgruntled, but finally nods.  "Very well.  I will meet you at the Ministry."  He sounds like we are going to a torture chamber, which is ridiculous.

A torture chamber would be much more enjoyable.

Wednesday 3 July, 1996

0931 GMT 

I arrive at the Ministry feeling more rested and refreshed than I have in days.  Despite my worries over Harry, the alliance, and Voldemort's moves, a night in my own bed has done me wonders.

Remus is waiting for me, looking on the restored Fountain of Magical Brethren.  It has been repaired in all its mawkish hypocrisy.  At least St. Mungo's will get some benefit from it.  Remus nods at my greeting but does not speak.  I suppose he is still angry.

We move through the Atrium, stopping at the Security Desk to have our wands weighed.  Several Aurors are in attendance at various points in the Atrium and the lift chamber beyond.  Most of them nod or give some signal.  Others, however, seem lost in thought or concentration.

We ascend rapidly to Level One, exiting the lift opposite the Offices of the Minister of Magic.  The large reception area is in chaos, with wizards and witches coming and going seemingly at random.  Piles of papers and letters clutter every desk.  Rows of chairs are filled to overcrowding with what appear to be surly petitioners.  And presiding over it all, looking worse than I have ever seen him, is Percy Weasley.

"Percy," I say coming up and laying a hand on his shoulder, "are you sure you should be here?  You look worn out."

He looks worse than that.  His eyes have deep circles under them, and his face is drawn and pinched.  He seems to have aged five years in a little more than twelve hours.  He is still wearing the same clothes he had on when he left the Storm Coach.

"Headmaster," Percy says, looking at me blankly as if it is taking his mind a moment to catch up with his tongue, "you wish to speak with Minister Fudge?"

"Yes.  I'm afraid I have to insist."  I bend my best look of benign severity on him.

Percy blinks a few times, then shakes his head.  "He isn't here.  He's in St. Mungo's."

"When?"  I am not surprised at the news.  Fudge has never been one to handle stress well, as this whole year has shown.

"Last night.  He checked himself in with extreme exhaustion and heart palpitations."  Percy runs one hand aimlessly through his red hair and sighs.

//More likely extreme fear of ridicule.//

Tom has a point.

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

//Ten to one he doesn't.//

"We are waiting to hear."  Percy looks around the room with an air of a hunted beast.

"Very well then, I think you can help me."  I smile my benign grandfather smile and maneuver Percy into a chair, sitting across from him while I extract some papers from a pocket of my robes.

"What do you need?"  His voice is suspicious, but mainly tired.  I feel a pang of regret, but what I am about to do is necessary and may well end up being to his benefit.

"I have a decree loosening enforcement of the laws concerning use of underage magic.  You might recall we had been discussing making exceptions for the crisis so that young people can train and help defend their families."  Actually the idea has been kicked around in several forums, but no specific suggestions have yet been made.

"Yes," Percy says slowly, "some of the Minister's programs considered that.  But I don't know if we should go suspending laws."

"Not laws Percy, just procedures.  I mean, if deatheaters were to attack a family do you really think the public would appreciate children being dragged into hearings just because they tried to help?"

"Well, no."  Percy runs his hand through his hair again.  "But we have to follow procedures."

"And we are.  All this does is authorize the Improper Use of Magic Office to use its discretion during the crisis.  The law remains the same as ever."

"Well, I don't know.  Maybe we should wait until the Minister returns."

"Percy," I say sternly, "we are at war.  Voldemort," Percy jumps, "may strike at any time.  We can't wait around for Cornelius to get better.  The public needs leadership and guidance, NOW."

"Of course you're right I suppose I..."

I hand him the decree.

"Very well."  He signs it in a scrawl very unlike his usual elegant script.

"Good."  I look up at Lupin and wink.  He gives me the ghost of a smile.  "Now here are just a few odds and ends relating to Hogwarts we need to clear up so we can continue with planning the next term.  For instance  we will need additional security.  Here are some papers authorizing the Auror Office to work with us on that."

"Of course, excellent thinking!"  Percy quickly scrawls his name to those.

"And these papers formalize the relationship between the Office of International Magical Cooperation and the Council we set up at Beauxbatons."

"Well," Percy blanches, "I don't know if I have the authority to do that."

"You aren't promising anything Percy.  It's just an authorization to keep talking like we did the last couple of days."

"I suppose that would be fine," he says in relief, signing the decree.  The petitioners are beginning to grow very restless, and a long line of men and women bearing files and papers is lining up to see Percy.

"Let's see," I say in my best dither, "there are a few other things."

"Mr. Weasley!" One of the witches is waving urgently.  "These papers HAVE to be co-signed in the next few minutes or we'll miss the morning mail to the continent."  A low roar of noise fills the room as dozens of functionaries and petitioners voice similar complaints.

"Professor Dumbledore, can't this wait?"  Percy is sweating now.  He looks like he did in his early years at Hogwarts, before I made him a prefect and, I regret to say, things started going to his head.  

//Another mistake for the great Albus.//

"Well here then Percy.  These are just some routine housekeeping matters authorizing me to make preparations for graduation and next term."

"Fine!"  Percy quickly signs the papers I present to him.  As I had hoped, he does not notice the rather non-routine ones I have slipped in.

"Thank you Percy."  I make to rise but Percy suddenly holds out a hand to stop me.

"How could I forget?!  When I returned from Beuxbatons I was told that the Minister had authorized public recognition of our heroic young students!"

_How could you forget indeed, especially since you are convinced one of those heroes is mad?  _"Has he?" I say aloud.

"Yes!  Mallory, please bring me those copies of the citiation notices!"  A young, harried looking witch quickly rifles through a stack of papers on a far desk and brings over a stack.

"Here you are," Percy exclaims, "the Star of Merit with Crossed Wands for all of the students, and in addition the Order of Excalibur for Harry Potter!"

"The Order of Excalibur?  It has been quite a while since that one was awarded."

"1732," Percy explains in a didactic tone, "but it is still an active and perfectly good award.  It's also the only one of the major Orders that doesn't have an age or profession restriction."

"I see the ceremony is scheduled for 14 July."

"Yes, here at the Ministry.  The Minister felt it would be appropriate."

And public.  Still, it appeals to me that the awards will be given on the same day as the memorial ceremony for Sirius.  He would have approved of the irony.

"We will provide full protection of course," Percy goes on pompously.  "But the Minister absolutely insists on this ceremony.  I am told he is most adamant that he will not here of it being put off."

Fudge is running scared and looking for good publicity.  If he has to stage a spectacle that is an open invitation for attack by deatheaters, so be it.  Then again, putting our finger in Voldemort's eye is not necessarily a bad thing, if it is done correctly.

"The owls have gone out to the recipients this morning," Percy says.  "Your own notification is probably awaiting you at Hogwarts."

"I have no doubt." I say with a deliberately bright smile.  "Thank you Percy, and convey my regards to Minister Fudge."

 With a hearty handshake and an offer of a lemon drop (declined), I rise and hurry out, the silent Lupin still at my heels.

"What was that about Albus?" Lupin asks as we enter an empty lift.  "Didn't you read in this morning's _Daily Prophet_ about Fudge's illness?"

"Of course," I say smiling, "that is why I decided to take advantage of the opportunity."

"Opportunity?"  His eyes narrow.  "What did you just have Percy sign?"

"Many things.  This in particular might please you."  I hand him a scroll.

He reads it and his eyebrows slowly creep up his hairline.  "Temporary suspension of enforcement of the recent Laws Concerning the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?"

"Yes, with a clause pardoning Buckbeak from his death sentence.  I put that in because I thought Sirius would have appreciated it."

"He would indeed."  For the first time today, Lupin smiles openly.

The Department of International Magical Cooperation receives the decree concerning the Council without turning an eyelash.  The Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, however, bursts into fury on seeing the suspension decree.  I had expected that, as many of them were friends and supporters of Dolores Umbridge.  Luckily all they can do is fume.  Lupin is grinning openly by the time we leave.

Our next stop, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, is comparatively quiet.  It still has no head, since Fudge never got around to appointing one after Ludo Bagman took to his heels to escape the wrath of his defrauded Goblin creditors.  The temporary head, a waspish young man named Altarus Brackson, does not greet me with enthusiasm.  Brackson had been a mediocre chaser for Slytherin in his Hogwarts years.  He had been an even more mediocre student.

"How can I help you, Professor Dumbledore?" he asks with a trace of condescension.  "If you are here about the Potter-Weasley bans, I must tell you that we will not reconsider."

"I am not going to ask you to reconsider, Altarus," I say smiling.  "I have made up my mind that the bans will be lifted."

"Headmaster," Altarus answers with a definite sneer, "might I remind you that the playing of Quidditch at Hogwarts is conducted under a grant of permission from this office?  If you defy our bans and allow Potter to play, we will revoke that permission and insist that all Quidditch team by disbanded and equipment seized.  I do not think the alumni and parents would be pleased watching the Quidditch Pitch dismantled."

"I am sure they would not," I exclaim amiably.  Remus now senses what is afoot, and his grinning so widely that I can tell Brackson is getting nervous.  "Luckily that will not be necessary.  Mr. Weasley has just signed this decree lifting the ban!"  I pass it to him.

"Mr. Weasley?"  He looks at the paper closely with an expression like he has just been punched.

"Yes, acting for Minister Fudge."

"This is _most_ irregular.  I don't know if this will do!"  

"Well, if you defy the decree, I suppose the Wizengamot will have to decide the issue."  I smile coldly.

He looks at me and his jaws swing shut with a snap.  He has just remembered who is Chief Warlock of that body.  

"I would have to recuse myself of course," I say cheerfully, "but I think you will find Madam Bones to be most sympathetic to Mr. Potter in this instance."

With ill grace, he marks the decree as received and returns a copy to me.  We depart, leaving the previously quiet office beginning to reverberate with his curses as we close the door.

"Percy is going to be in a great deal of trouble," Remus observes cheerfully.

"It's for his own good." I say flatly.

//You are good at deciding what is for people's own good, aren't you?//

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is even more of a madhouse than the Minister's Office.  Dodging several squadrons of paper-airplane memos, we make our way to Amelia Bones' office.  She welcomes us happily and soon we are seated in comfortable chairs, drinking tea that her assistant has provided.

First I present her with the decree about enforcement of the Law on Use of Underage Magic.  She smiles.  "I was hoping you would manage to get this through.  Even Malfalda is saying provisions have to be made."  Malfalda Hopkirk, head of the Improper Magic Use Office, is known for her attention to the letter of the law – as Harry has discovered on several occasions.

"Have you had a chance to look at Miss Granger's petition?"  Amelia is suddenly very serious.

"Yes, and although I agree that it is hearsay in its claim regarding the use of the quill, Miss Granger was an actual witness with regard to the two other claims she makes."  I sip my tea and frown.

"That is most distressing.  I never liked Dolores, but I had no idea she would go to such lengths.  I asked Susan about the quill the minute she got home.  She assured me it was true.  What was the woman thinking?  Surely she knew something like that would get every Wizarding parent in Britain up in arms!"

"Forethought was not one of Dolores Umbridge's greatest strengths," I answer.  "Witness the stupidity of the legislation she pushed."

Remus grunts his agreement with that.  Amelia has the grace to look embarassed.

"Do you think we should proceed on all the charges?"  Amelia looks concerned.  "I understand from Susan that it was Harry Potter who bore the brunt of her abuse.  Do you think he would testify?"

"What abuse?" Lupin asks with a puzzled look.  "What quill?"  I had forgotten that he did not know.

I nod to Amelia, who explains the charge.  By the time she is finished Lupin is doing a very good impression of Vernon Dursley.

"WHAT!!"  The werewolf comes out of his chair with a bound.  "Why didn't McGonagall put a stop to that?!"

"Harry never told her," I say quietly, "he never told any of the teachers.  We only found out once Umbridge was in complete control and started to do things more openly."

Of course I knew.  I had watched.  I had done nothing.  My stomach churns with anger and shame.

//Pity poor you.//

"Why didn't he tell Si...uh, the rest of us?"  Remus is pacing now.  "When I get my hands on that boy I'll, I'll, ... ohhh!"

"To answer your question Amelia," I say to the bemused Madam Bones, "I don't think Harry would agree to testify and I would not recommend it.  He is in a very distressed situation right now.  The last thing he needs is that type of ordeal."

"And the other charges?"

"Well," I say slowly, "the charge about the Cruciatus Curse is weak.  She did not actually complete the curse.  The most we could charge her with is intent, and that could be troublesome, particularly if the Slytherins that were there at the time decide to dispute Miss Granger's story."

_There is also the problem that it cuts too close to Harry's own use of the curse_.

"But on the matter of the Dementors, I think we have here dead to rights.  She admitted her guilt in front of Harry and Hermione alone.  The question is, do we want to pursue it?"

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"  Remus stops pacing and looks at me fiercely.  "SHE TRIED TO KILL HARRY AND YOU WANT TO LET HER GET AWAY WITH IT?"

"I have no desire whatsoever to see Dolores Umbridge go unpunished," I say in a careful, reasonable tone.  "But given the problem of Harry's hearing last year, prosecuting Umbridge would be a severe embarassment to Fudge."

"AND?"  The werewolf is almost shaking with disbelief.

"And," I say softly, "distasteful as it is to admit, we might be better off with Fudge than with a Ministry in disarray."

"You would let that woman get away with attacking Harry for, for, POLITICS?"  Remus is screeching.

"There are many ways of dealing with Dolores Umbridge," I say in a hard voice, "do not think sending her to Azkaban is the only way to punish her!"

"Arthur is right about you."  Remus says in disgust.

I sit frozen for a moment.  Amelia looks from one to the other of us in shock.  I am fighting the urge to come out of my chair and physically assault the angry werewolf.

"Remus," I finally say and realize my voice is close to shaking, "I give you my word we will deal with Umbridge for what she has done.  But please understand that we MUST take the good of the whole into account."

"The good of the many versus the good of the one?  That's always the way you think, isn't it, Albus?"  His fists are clenching and unclenching.

"I have never," I say softly, "EVER, looked upon Harry's welfare as a utilitarian concern.  Not even when I logically SHOULD have."  I raise my hand to forestall another outburst.  "But there are ways of satisfying the good of both the one and the many.  Surely that is best?"

//Come now.  NEVER, EVER?  What about all those years he spent under the Dursley's care?//

That was to keep him alive! 

//Of course it was.  The emotional trauma was just an added benefit, I suppose.//

I turn to Amelia, whose eyes are the size of dinner plates.  "Forgive us, Amelia.  This is a...family squabble."

"We may not have a choice, Albus," she says after a long silence.  "As I said, the petitions for no confidence are flooding in.  We will have to open a preliminary hearing of the Wizengamot.  And I don't see how we can avoid the actual public vote.  Most of the petitions are in order, and there are more than enough valid signatures to justify the action."

"I know."  I had expected this, only not so soon.  "Let's schedule a preliminary hearing for one week from today."

"And Umbridge?"  Amelia looks almost scared to bring up the subject.

"I will talk with her personally.  I have to recuse myself anyway so there's no impropriety.  Maybe once I have seen her the appropriate course of action will be clear."

As she ponders this I look at Lupin.  He is still furious.  "Remus," I say gently, "you might want to present Madam Bones with this."  I hand him another piece of parchment.

He looks at it and his eyes widen.  I see tears glinting in them as he passes it to Amelia.

"An order to re-open the case of Sirius Black?"  Amelia looks shocked.  "I know Mr. Potter believes him innocent, but is there enough evidence?"

"Sirius Black died a hero in this building, Amelia," I say fiercely.  "As for evidence, I think Remus can help you with that."

Remus looks at me, his face unreadable.  Then he looks at Amelia.  "It would be my pleasure.  Shall we take it up at your earliest possible convenience?"

She agrees gratefully and, with almost unseemly haste, ushers us out.  She keeps looking at Lupin like he might go wild at any moment.

We trudge in silence down to Arthur's small cubbyhole in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.  He looks up at us and gestures silently for us to find seats in the crowded space.  We sit silently for a moment, the air vibrating with tension.

"Albus," Arthur begins at last.  "I am sorry for some of the things I said last night. But it is very hard to watch Harry in pain like that."

"I know, Arthur," I say quietly.  "Believe me, I know."

Remus grunts.  Skepticism has returned to his eyes, but he does not see fit to comment.

"Arthur," I continue softly, "I am here to confess something.  I am afraid that I have used your son very badly.'

Arthur frowns.  "Charlie, Bill?" he asks, naming his two elder boys who are members of the Order.  Then his eyes widen and his face flushes with fear and anger.  "Ron?"

"No, Arthur, Percy." I say, still in a quiet tone.

"Percy?"

A quickly explain what I have done.  Arthur listens with a grim expression.  When I am finished he sits silently for a full two minutes, his jaw working as if he is chewing muggle chewing gum.  Finally he bows his head and speaks in a voice filled with grief.  "Percy has made his choice.  He must bear the consequences."

I reach over and put my hand on his shoulder.  After a moment he looks up and forces a smile.

"I have something for you both."  He picks up two cards from his desk and hands them to us.  Engraved on them in ink that changes colors in flashing kaleidascopic patterns is:

YOU ARE INVITED TO A CELEBRATION OF THE 

GRAND OPENING 

OF

WEASLEYS' WIZARD WHEEZES 

  33 Diagon Alley

        Saturday 13 July, 1996

_Just at the beginning of Summer after Leavetaking._  No doubt a very deliberate choice.

"The twins were hoping you both could come," Arthur explains.  "They've invited Harry, too.  Do you think he could come Albus, if only for a while?"

"I will consider it."  When I see Arthur's face tighten I decide to go ahead and give him the good news.  "I think we will be able to have Harry out of Privet Drive on Monday evening, Arthur.  I have not yet decided where to send him, but would you and Molly be willing to take him for a while, come to that?"

Arthur suddenly grins joyously, much of his anger instantly erased from his face.  "You know we would Albus!  Ron will be overjoyed."

"It would be best not to mention it yet, though," I caution.  "With everything in the wind, something might happen to change our plans, and I would not want to cause a great deal of disappointment."

Arthur frowns but indicates his understanding.  At the thought of Harry I look at the nearby clock and realize it is almost twelve.  Reflexively I pull out my ward beads and see that they are all dark, save for a single glowing red sphere indicating that Harry has left the confines of #4 Privet Drive.  He is doubtless on his way to Arabella's now.

Taking our leave of Arthur, we retreat to the Atrium and floo to Arabella Figg's.  The fireplace Arabella has connected to the floo network is upstairs, doubtless to decrease the risk of a casual passerby looking through her windows and seeing something shocking.  We find ourselves in a pleasant sitting room full, of course, of cats.  I note that the low coffee table in the center of the room is covered with books.  Remus and I take a quick look at the volumes and exchange surprised glances.

We move downstairs, following the sound of muffled voices.  As we reach the ground floor, I hear Arabella's voice coming from the kitchen.

"Oh, this is awful!  How could this have happened?"

A reply from someone is drowned out by a loud moan of pain and I hurry across the living room and enter the kitchen.  Arabella is bustling around the counter, looking panicked, and does not see us enter.  The other woman in the room, however, notices me the instant I pass through the kitchen door.

"Oh, Merlin!" Nymphadora Tonks exclaims, her pale face an odd contrast to her bright green hair.

However, I have little attention to spare for the flustered Auror.  Instead my gaze is fixed on the shirtless teenager seated on the edge of the kitchen table, gripping the edge with his hands while staring at the floor and obviously biting back more moans.  His breath is coming in tight gasps.  Red swelling blossoms on his ribcage and his right cheek.  And his torso is covered in blood.

_Harry!_


	11. Perpetual Wounds

Author: Dzeytoun

Category: Angst/Drama

Rating: PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Hello all.  First thank you to my Beta, Panko Piskun.  Now:

IMPORTANT PLOT LINE SHIFT: One reason it took me a while to update this time was that I saw a knot in the story coming up that was proving a little troublesome.  Luckily "anonymous coward" helped me out be mentioning that British schools don't actually have graduation ceremonies.  Accordingly, there has been a plot shift.  Rather than a graduation ceremony of the afternoon of Sunday, 14 July, the intrepid adventurers who faced Voldemort at the end of OOTP will be presented with medals.  I went back and edited all the chapters so that everything is consistent.  Don't worry, you don't have to read it all again.  Just glance over the conversation with Percy in the last chapter and you will be up to speed.

OPEN SEASON ON ALBUS: Several people have remarked on the hostility shown to Albus in the previous couple of chapters.  Things are beginning to become very stressful on everyone, and it's starting to show.  Just as Albus is beginning to feel overwhelmed, all the people around him are starting to fray at the edges too.  Wars are very difficult and demanding things, and their emotional cost, as everyone is finding, is huge.  And the real fighting hasn't even started yet!  In addition we need to remember that the mistakes Albus made in Harry's fifth year will inevitably have a toll not just on Harry, but on everyone who cares about him.

HERE BE MONSTERS  
  


Chapter Eleven: Perpetual Wounds

Wednesday 3 July 1996

1215 GMT 

"Albus!" Arabella exclaims, turning quickly.  Harry looks up with a wince.

I have found over many years that in a crisis, calm and humor almost always serve better than panic.  Fighting down my surge of distress, I give a concerned smile and say, "My goodness, Harry, only five days out of Hogwarts and already missing Madam Pomfrey?"  

"It isn't as bad as it looks," Arabella explains, hurrying to Harry's side carrying a wet cloth and a bottle of healing balm, "it's mainly just scratches and such – and a few bites."  She proceeds to sponge off the blood and spread the balm over the boy's chest and face, where I now see the long, angry abrasions, along with bite marks on his cheek and at the base of his throat. Remus brushes past me and hurries to Harry for a closer look.

I shoot a look at Tonks, who is pressing against the refrigerator like she would like to meld into it.  The young Auror blushes and says, "It was a dog, on the sidewalk."

"A dog?" I withdraw my bag of lemon drops from my sleeve and offer them to Harry.

"Itkindasortalookedalittlelikesnuffles," the boy gabbles, looking down at his feet again.

"Pardon me, Harry?" I inquire softly.  Remus takes him by the chin and forces his head up.  He looks at us somewhat defiantly.

"I said it looked a little like Snuffles."

Remus moves his hand to Harry's shoulder with an expression of distress and sympathy.  I give Harry my "I'm-very-concerned-but-not-panicked look."

"It was a big black dog," Tonks continues.  "It walked right up and seemed friendly, but when Harry tried to pet it for some reason it jumped on him and started biting and clawing."  She gestures to a red-stained rag on the table, which I realize is the remains of Harry's shirt.

"And where were you when this was going on?!" Remus snaps, glaring at Tonks, who tries even harder to melt into the refrigerator.  I have to admit the werewolf's passive streak seems to be fading fast.

"Well, the dog was trailing a leash, and my feet...sort of got tangled up in it."

Remus snorts and turns back to Harry.  Pulling out his wand he begins to mutter healing charms to aid the balm.  With the blood sponged off I see that Arabella is correct and the scratches did indeed appear much worse than they really are.  The balm and charms are already causing them to close and fade.  The bites look fierce and inflamed, but are also healing rapidly under the combined ministrations of wizard and squib.  I realize that I have been clenching my throat muscles against rising gorge, and I remember Arthur's remarks about getting sick at the sight of Harry's blood.  How right he was.   

Relaxing with an effort, I smile and offer Tonks a lemon drop.  "We shall have to add leash avoidance to Auror training."  She gives me a shy, grateful grin and takes one of the candies.

"Better, Harry?" I inquire softly.

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes.  "S'Okay."  Now that I get a good look at him, I feel a stab of genuine shock.  He is pale with deep circles under his eyes.  His normally wild hair is tangled and matted, and the set of his mouth is grim – much too grim for one so young.

_Albus, what have you done?_

I begin to wonder if I did the right thing after all.  NO.  He had a right to be told the truth.  Now it is up to us to help him bear it.

Arabella bustles about and produces a large turtleneck from somewhere.  It hangs loosely on Harry, but no worse than many of his other clothes.  

"If you don't mind, lunch will be a little late," Arabella announces with an apologetic smile, "I need to go pick up a couple of things.  Perhaps you could talk for a few minutes?"  Moving close to me she murmurs "Also, I want to go be Diagon Alley and pick up a few healing potions for Harry.  Otherwise I'm afraid he'll have awful bruises.  Not to mention that we need to get some protective draughts into him against whatever diseases that creature might have been carrying."

I nod in understanding and approval.  "I'm sure we can entertain ourselves for a while, Arabella."

With a hustle and bustle and flurry of last minute instructions to her cats, Arabella hurriedly climbs the stairs and floos away. I signal to Tonks to lag behind as Remus and Harry climb the stairs.

"Tonks, what became of the dog?"  I am not at all satisfied that the appearance of a fierce dog that just happened to look like Sirius' animagus form can be put down to coincidence.

Tonks understands immediately what I'm getting at.  "I levitated it off Harry and into the bushes.  It jumped over the bushes and ran away.  I shot one stunner after it, but I thought I had better get Harry to Arabella's, so I didn't give chase."

"You were correct.  I don't like this at all, though."

"Neither do I," she confesses.  She is looking down and not meeting my gaze.

"Tonks," I say softly, "Getting caught in a brawl is one of the most difficult situations for any wizard to handle.  That you fell is not surprising.  What is admirable is that you recovered and extricated Harry before he was really badly injured."

Nymphadora looks up shyly and smiles her thanks.  After she takes a lemon drop, we ascend to the sitting room where Remus, Tonks, and I take seats while Harry stands awkwardly.

"No need to stand, Harry," I assure him, gesturing at an empty spot on the couch next to Remus.  

He just shrugs again, refusing to meet my eye.  I get the distinct impression that I'm being punished for not looking at _him_ all this past year.

//Turnabout and all that.//

"We have been worried about you, Harry." Remus says softly.  

"M'Alright," Harry mumbles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

The three adults exchange glances, none of us in the least fooled.  I rise and walk over to him.  Placing my hand on his chin, I gently force his head up.  His eyes are haunted and dark with unshed tears.  I see no trace of the serpent in his gaze now, but that is little comfort.

"Was the vision you called me about your first since Leavetaking, Harry?"

"Yeah," he swallows hard, "it's the first time I've seen Voldemort since the Ministry."

_He's hiding something_.  He isn't lying – not specifically.  But he's not telling the whole truth either.

"And what about other dreams, Harry?" I prod.

I look of defiance settles on his features and his eyes close like shutters.  "They're not too bad."

I exchange a quick glance with Remus again.  Harry sees us and the look of defiance grows more fierce.

Well, he will never open up in front of such a large audience.  I decide to try a different approach.  "Have you been practicing your Occlumency?"

He relaxes a little, but still has an air of suspicion.  "Yeah.  I've tried to do it four hours a day, like you said.  It's kind of hard, though."

I allow my hand to rest gently on his shoulder.  "I know, Harry.  It is a very difficult art.  But it will get easier with time.  What focus are you using?  You don't need to switch foci too often, but sometimes it does help if you find your mind straying."

"Focus?"  He looks puzzled.  "What's a focus, Professor?"

"What technique did Professor Snape recommend you use when closing your mind?"

"He just said to empty my mind of all thoughts."  Harry grimaces.  "Easy for Snape to say."

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry," I correct automatically, feeling a sense of dismay.  Although blanking of the mind is certainly an Occlumency technique, it is an advanced goal, not normally the first step in training.  My mistake in having Severus teach the boy was even greater than I thought.  In his disdain for the task, and for his pupil, he positioned Harry for failure by leaping impatiently to the higher levels of the art.

I must have inadvertently tightened my hand on Harry's shoulder, because he winces despite the healing charms and balms.  "I'm sorry, Harry.  Why don't you go downstairs and lie down until lunch is ready?  We will have plenty of time to talk this afternoon."

Harry rewards me with what actually might be the skeleton of a smile.  "Thanks professor," he says softly, "See you in a few minutes Tonks, Prof ... Moony."

Remus smiles fondly at the name, but Harry looks so sad that I feel an urge to cry.  We watch silently as Harry walks stiffly down the stairs.  Remus drops his head into his hands.

"Remus?" Tonks asks, "What is it?"

"Everything," he say, "everything is wrong!  Harry should be worrying about attracting girls, not repelling dark lords.  He should be practicing quidditch maneuvers, not patronus charms!"

"I know," I say softly, "it's all wrong.  It's wrong and cruel and so unfair that you want to strike out at someone.  But all we can do is dedicate ourselves to helping Harry, to making sure he survives."

"Survives for what?" Remus asks sadly.  "The boy has no life!  His entire existence is wrapped up in defeating Voldemort!  Even if he wins, what will be left?"

//Well, you could stuff him and put him on display in the Great Hall.//

"All I have wanted," I reply, "for a long time, is for Harry to be happy.  I have failed miserably.  All I can do, however, is continue trying."

"I should have talked to Snape," Remus says softly.

"What about?" Tonks is looking from one to the other of us with mounting concern on her face.

"When Harry firetalked to Sirius and me about how Snape wasn't giving him lessons anymore, Sirius wanted to storm up to Hogwarts and shake Snape by the scruff of the neck.  I told him I would deal with it."  Remus wrings his hands and sighs.  "But I didn't.  I thought it would do no good to speak with Severus, at least not then.  I thought we could sort it out after everyone's tempers cooled.  But then events took over and I just never said anything about it."  He drops his head like a man defeated.

//Pathetic excuse for a predator.//

This has always been Remus' weakness – passivity and self-doubt.  I had hoped that making him a prefect years ago would help him overcome it, but James and Sirius were too dominant.  Of course the burden of being a werewolf has also been extraordinary for Remus.  It has alienated him, made him feel helpless and unworthy.  When powered by great passion, such as the concern for Harry he has been showing these last couple of days, he can be formidable indeed.  But when his passion dies down, when the flame burns low as it inevitably must, Remus has no reserves, no firm foundations of confidence on which to rely.  Even in the grip of his love for Harry, he is still prey to crippling guilt and hesitation.  But for his sake, and for Harry's, Remus _must_ not be allowed to wallow in his self-recriminations.

"We all made many mistakes in that affair, Remus.  It is my fault above all."

"And Snape's," Remus says bitterly.

How to answer that?  On the simplest level, he is of course correct.  Indeed, when I first heard that Severus had refused to continue giving Harry Occlumency training I felt anger and disappointment such as I have not experienced in many years.  But now I see the full extent of my own complicity in Snape's actions.  

"I asked Severus to shoulder a burden beyond his ability to carry.  The fault is mine."

"Why _did_ you ask Professor Snape to train Harry?" Tonks asks.  "I understand why you felt you could not do it yourself, but is he really so good that you felt he was the only substitute?"

"Oh, he is a fine Occlumens indeed!  Very few could play the Dark Lord for a fool and survive as Severus has."  

_But there were other reasons.  _

//Face it.  You were thinking a few days ago that Minerva does not have the strength to look human evil full on. Could not the same be said of you?//

"However," I continue, driven by a sudden impulse to defend my decision, "there was more to it.  You see, like I've told Harry, old men become arrogant in our experience, and we sometimes forget very important truths.  One truth that I forgot is that some wounds cannot be healed by time, and some cannot be healed at all.  For these last five years I have treasured the belief that given time and patience Severus could overcome his feelings with regard to James Potter."

Remus snorts and gives me a look of disbelief.  I smile at him sadly.  "Naive, Remus, I now admit.  But nevertheless I really did believe that Severus could put aside the past with James and teach Harry to close his mind.  As I have said  before, the mistake of an old man who forgot that some wounds do not heal."

We sit silently for many minutes, each lost in thought.  Finally, I decide that the quiet has grown unhealthy and turn to Tonks.  "Nymphadora," I smile at her trying to convey fondness and comfort, "Perhaps you can tell us what Harry is doing with Auror training manuals?"  I gesture at the pile of books on the table.

She blushes brightly but meets my eye straight on.  "He asked me to help him in his Defense studies.  He seemed to already know a lot of things in my old Sixth and Seventh year textbooks, so I lent him the manuals.  Besides, given who's after him, it can't hurt."

"You have been helping him learn what is in these books?" I ask.

"Yes.  Moody and Kingsley have said they will help as well.  But I think it's best if I take the lead."

"Why so?"  I broaden my smile, feeling my fondness for the young Auror grow.

She maintains eye contact as she speaks slowly.  "Sir, please do not take what I am about to say as a criticism, of either of you," she shoots a glance at Remus, "but it seems to me that Harry felt abandoned this past year.  I think that's partly why he acted like he did – with his temper and all."  

I nod.  I have come to the same painful conclusion.  Remus indicates agreement as well.

"Well, if he's going to get over that he needs to learn to trust us again.  Not that he needs to be coddled, necessarily, but he does need a lot of attention.  Well, Kingsley has too many high-level assignments at the Ministry to provide that and Moody," she visibly braces herself, "Moody's kind of attention may not be what he needs just now."

I nod slowly, impressed by Tonks' wisdom.  Remus is looking at her with an expression akin to wonder on his face. "Very good Nymphadora," I say gently, "I think you are quite right.  We will need to discuss this when we decide how to arrange the rest of Harry's summer."

"Are you going to tell him he can leave the Dursley's Monday evening?" Tonks asks hopefully.  "That would probably perk him up!"

I consider it, then reluctantly shake my head.  "Better not, right now.  With so many uncertain things in motion, a crisis might yet arise to disrupt our plans.  I don't think we want to raise his hopes then have to disappoint him."

"What about the grand opening of the Weasleys' joke shop?  Will you let him go to that?"  Remus' voice is calm and for once today does not have a note of accusation.

"I wish I could," I say earnestly.  "It would do him a world of good to have fun with his friends.  But you know as well as I do Remus that that event is almost an open invitation for a deatheater raid.  By now Voldemort is well aware that two of the young people who foiled him are members of the Weasley family.  The twins might as well be sticking their fingers in Voldemort's eye."

"Then are you going to advise them to cancel it?" Tonks asks.  

"Yes," I sigh, "but they won't listen.  I'm sure Molly Weasley has howled herself hoarse by now to no avail."

We fall silent again.  Tonks and Remus accept lemon drops, and we sit enjoying our candy once again lost in thought.  

With a sudden roar and a flash of green, Arabella returns, draped in bags.  A small feline herd immediately gathers, evidently used to the strange comings and goings through that hearth.  But Mrs. Figg is not alone.  Emerging from the fireplace behind her is none other than the redoubtable Madam Pomfrey.

"I thought about it and decided to go up to Hogwarts and fetch Poppy," Arabella explains as Remus and I take her bags over her protests.  "I think we will all rest better if she looks over Harry."

"I think you are right Arabella," I reply.  "Thank you for coming Poppy."

"Not at all Albus, not at all," Poppy says briskly.  "It's a welcome break from stocking shelves.  Now, where is the young man?"  She nods to Remus and Nymphadora, but says nothing.  Although Poppy is not per se a member of the Order, I trust her discretion totally.

Arabella shows her downstairs, with the Remus and I following carrying bags and Tonks bringing up the rear.  We find Harry stretched out on the couch, one hand flung across his eyes.  Several cats sit arrayed sphynxlike on the floor as if standing guard.  I am reminded of a cursed tomb I once entered, with guardian statues around an embalmed prince.  I thrust the thought away angrily.

Poppy waits until Remus and I have placed our burdens down in the kitchen, then the three of us approach Harry together.  The cats look at us gravely but do not move as we come near.  I look at Harry's sleeping figure and feel my heart contract painfully.

_Oh my treasure, there is nothing I would not give to be able to shield you from this pain. _

"Why is he on the couch and not in bed?" Madam Pomfrey asks, in a tone that is slightly irritated.

Beside me Remus sighs.  I understand how he feels.  How typical of Harry.  Three bedrooms at his disposal and he is sleeping on a lumpy sofa.  Lupin kneels at Harry's side and gently shakes him.  Harry comes awake with a soft groan.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey says with a professional smile, "I had not thought to be seeing you again so soon."

"Me either, Madame Pomfrey," he answers politely, scratching his head sleepily.

"Well, we had best get straight to it.  I'm sure Arabella would not mind if we made use of one of her bedrooms.  After you, Mr. Potter."  Harry gets up slowly and shambles toward one of the open bedroom doors, followed by the healer.  Remus makes to follow, but I put out a hand to delay him.

"Remus, while Madame Pomfrey is examining Harry I am going to pay a visit to the Dursleys.  I'll leave you to manage things here."

He makes to protest but I am already turned away and moving toward the door.  Right now I think it is best if Vernon Dursley and Remus Lupin are kept as far apart as possible.

Reaching the door I cast an invisibility charm on myself and leave Arabella's house.  I could transfigure my robes to muggle clothes, but I think for this visit my current appearance will serve to prove a point.  As I reach #4 Privet Drive, I further charm myself to silence any noise I might make as I move around the house and slip in through the back door.

The kitchen is empty, but the sound of Vernon Dursley's voice comes clearly from the living room.  He is in a fine temper, and evidently is holding forth to his wife and son.

"THESE FREAKS HAVE NO RESPECT!  FIRST THE BOY SAYS THAT CRAZY HEADMASTER OF HIS DEMANDS – DEMANDS MIND YOU – THAT I TAKE THE AFTERNOON OFF TO MEET HIM OVER SOME TRIVIAL NONSENSE, THEN HE KEEPS ME WAITING!  I SHOULD HAVE GIVEN THE BOY A PIECE OF MY MIND!  I TELL YOU THAT HEADMASTER OR WHOEVER HE IS WILL GET ONE WHEN HE GETS HERE!  I'M AN IMPORTANT MAN!  JUST WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?"

I hear another voice, much softer, saying something I can't discern.  Petunia.

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PETUNIA?  YOU'VE BEEN PECULIAR ALL SUMMER!  DON'T TELL ME YOU'RE FRIGHTENED OF A SCHOOLTEACHER!"

I slip out of the kitchen into the hall.  To my right is the entrance to the living room.  To my left I see the door to the closet where Harry spent ten years of his life.  

"I'M GOING TO GO DOWN TO MRS. FIGG'S HOUSE AND GIVE THAT BOY THE HIDING OF HIS LIFE!"  Vernon Dursley is pacing up and down like a fat bull – although I don't think bulls ever go purple in the face.  Petunia is seated on the couch, looking thin and worried.  Their great lout of a son is leaning against the mantlepiece with a sullen expression on his pig-like features.

I cancel my cloaking spells and step into the room, willing myself to smile. "I really don't think that would be an advisable course of action, Mr. Dursley."

Vernon stops his pacing and stares at me, his eyes bulging comically.  Petunia gives a little gasp and goes white.  Dudley thrusts out his lower lip and stares at the floor.

"Allow me to introduce myself, I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Would you like a lemon drop?"  I extend my hand holding the bag.

Vernon's mouth drops open.

"Hello, Petunia," I say softly, stowing the lemon drops back in my sleeve.

Somewhat to my surprise, she actually manages a reply.  "Hello, Headmaster," she mumbles, looking at her feet.

That snaps Vernon out of his trance.  "DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW THIS OLD FREAK?"  He glares at his wife in disbelief.

"Oh, Petunia and I have had communication over the years," I say for her, drawing his attention back to me.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WOULDN'T ADVISE IT!  WHILE THAT BOY LIVES UNDER MY ROOF I'LL DISCIPLINE HIM AS I PLEASE!  AND HE HAS THE WORST HIDING OF HIS LIFE COMING!"

To my own amazement, I almost laugh.  Instead, I simply look at him over my spectacles with the expression I use for stubborn and stupid schoolboys.

"Three points, Mr. Dursley.  Firstly, I assure you that if you carry through with that intention your family will not enjoy your company past the next full moon.  Harry has a werewolf who is rather fond of him."

Vernon's eyes bulge once more while Petunia lets out a little yelp.  Dudley looks up wide-eyed.

"Yes, you heard me rightly, a werewolf.  Secondly, I would not lay good odds on your even returning from Mrs. Figg's in good health.  Harry's friends are always watching you know."

"You can't!" Vernon Dursley blusters, his eyes narrowed, "your kind aren't allowed!"

"Oh, I wouldn't put much faith in that, if I were you.  Harry is quite an important person in our world, as my letter explained fifteen years ago.  An assault on him would invite severe consequences."  I draw my wand from my sleeve to emphasize the point.  Petunia goes even whiter.

"And what's your third point?"  Vernon's eyes have narrowed so severely that I marvel he can see.

"Thirdly, if I thought you were about to attack Harry I would have to stop you."  

Vernon's eyes fly wide at that, and he chuckles.  "You are going to stop me old man?  I don't care if you are some kind of bigshot freak!  It will be a ...."

"VERNON, NO!"  Petunia comes to her feet and puts her hand on her husband's arm, her voice quavering with fear.

Dursley looks at his wife in annoyance.  "Petunia, what IS wrong with you?"

"I would recommend you listen to your wife, Mr. Dursley.  As for you young man," I shoot a glance at Dudley, who has come forward from his place at the mantle, "I would strongly suggest you refrain from interfering in things that do not concern you."

"DON'T YOU DARE THREATEN MY SON!" Vernon is going purple again.

"I have threatened no one, Mr. Dursley, I am merely stating facts."  I brush past him and take a seat in an armchair that I strongly suspect is usually reserved for Vernon's use.  "Now, why don't we discuss Harry."

"Yes, why don't we?" Vernon hisses.  "How DARE you tell me how to run my household!  I have been kind enough to give that worthless boy shelter for fifteen years.  The least he could do is earn his keep!"  Dudley laughs wickedly.

"Harry has many stressful responsibilities." I reply.  "To meet them he must train and study rigorously, and maintain himself in good health.  As his Headmaster, it is my duty to see that his needs are met, if possible."

"I won't have that boy laying around all day!"

"He is hardly laying around, Mr. Dursley.  It is my impression that he has been studying quite intensely."

"Worthless claptrap!  I never should have allowed him to attend that ridiculous freak academy!"

"You had no choice then Mr. Dursley, and you have no choice now," I say softly.  

"Vernon, maybe we should listen to him." Petunia's tone is apologetic and fearful.  "We might not like it, but he is the boy's Headmaster, and he understands things we don't."

"PETUNIA!"  Dursley is clearly shocked.  "All this stupidity about somebody coming back from the dead has gotten to you.  Buck up woman!"

"Voldemort was never what one could call dead, Mr. Dursley, although I will grant you that even most wizards considered him so.  And I do assure you, he has returned."  I am not smiling now, and my voice is ice cold.  "His feud with your wife's family is an old one.  He will not rest until it is complete."

Dursley looks at me with murder in his eyes.  I raise my wand but do not point it at him.  He clenches and unclenches his fists, while Petunia looks ready to drop dead of fright at any moment and Dudley stands stolidly looking hostile and stupid.

"Your kind have brought us nothing but trouble!  Your kind brought those, THINGS, down on my Dudley last year."

"That's right!" Dudley speaks for the first time, his voice as loathsome as I expected, "I had to beat'em off Potty!"

"You did?" I inquire mildly.  "That is interesting, as you would not even have been able to see them." 

"ARE YOU CALLING MY SON A LIAR?"  Dursley flings spittle in every direction as he roars.

"Why yes, Mr. Dursley, I am."

"GET OUT!"  Dursley takes a threatening step towards me, but comes to a dead stop as a raise my wand slightly.

"I don't think that you want to pursue the line of action you are contemplating, Mr. Dursley."  I say coldly.  Then I smile.  "Still perhaps I should give your son the benefit of the doubt."

Dursley just stands still, breathing in and out like a bellows.  Dudley begins to smirk.  Petunia, on the other hand, slinks to the side wringing her hands.

"No dementy-thingy is going to get past me!" Dudley proclaims, raising his fists in a boxing posture.

"Then this will provide you with little trouble," I say mildly, pointing my wand at the space in front of him.  "_Aegrimonia," _I whisper.

Dudley screams and throws himself backward as the figure of a dementor appears before him.  Crossing his arms over his head, he cowers in a tight ball, whimpering.

"Odd," I say mildly, "I thought you had defeated dementors before."

Vernon Dursley lets out an animal roar and dives for me.  I flick my wand over to him and bark "_Pulso!"_  His roar changes to a frightened yelp as he is thrown back, knocking tumbling over the couch and lying flat on his back, gasping like a beached blowfish.

"Stop it!" Petunia screeches, wringing her hands so hard it is a wonder she doesn't sprain her wrists.  "Take that thing away!  We will do what you say!  Nobody is going to touch the boy, he'll be fine!"

I meet Petunia's frightened eyes, and feel a twinge of dismay.  I had known when I left Harry with her that he would suffer at her hands.  Even I was not so silly as to think she could love him.  But I believed, foolishly, that she could rise above her past with Lily and James and reach some kind of livable accomodation with regard to her nephew.  I had thought that, although Harry's life with her would be difficult, it need not be a horror story.  Now I know that was yet another example of an old man's arrogance.  

"Very well, Petunia," I dismiss the illusion of the dementor with a casual wave, "I think we understand one another on this matter."

But Vernon is not yet finished.  Hauling his bulk up off the floor, he staggers against the couch and growls "We most certainly do not understand one another, freak!  Get out!  Get out and take that boy with you!  I want him out of my house!"

"VERNON, NO!"  Petunia rounds on him swiftly, like a sparrow attacking a barn owl.  "The boy stays!"

Dursley looks as if the wind has been knocked out of him yet again.  "But, Petunia..."

"NO, VERNON!  The boy will stay and he will follow the schedule Professor Dumbledore set for him!"

"But, Mummy..." Dudley begins to whine.

"Be quiet, Dudley!" Petunia snaps, causing her son to look like he's been slapped.

"Do we have an understanding, Mr. Dursley?" I ask mildly as Vernon slumps down on the couch, his mouth hanging open in shock.  He looks at me blankly, then nods.

"Very well.  Harry will be returning this evening.  And please remember, Mr. Dursley, that if I or any other member of our world have to come here again, we will not content ourselves with shadow shows."

"We understand," Petunia replies for her husband.  "Now please just go!"

I rise and depart, leaving Petunia to care for her stricken family.  Reweaving my concealment charms, I slip out the back door once again and walk back to Arabella's.

I arrive to find Poppy and Remus waiting in the living room.  Remus starts a bit as I drop my charms, then motions for me to join them.  "I told Harry to go ahead and have his lunch.  I thought he could probably use it."

"Good thinking.  What did you find, Poppy?"

The healer purses her lips in a habitual gesture, but the extra furrows in her brow tell me she is genuinely worried.  "Nothing much, Albus.  I gave him some healing potions to prevent bruising and help with soreness, and had him take a couple of broad anti-disease and anti-poison draughts.  I couldn't find anything unusual, but I can't perform broad-spectrum tests here.  He needs to come and stay at Hogwarts.  Better yet, he needs to go to St. Mungo's."

I frown and shake my head.  "I'm sorry Poppy, but unless there is a specific reason I just can't have him leave the Dursley's right now."  We are already cutting the time to the bone.  If Harry leaves before Monday evening, the protections will surely collapse, and I won't be able to re-establish them – not this long after his mother's original sacrifice.

"Albus, I know you must have your reasons, but I just don't feel comfortable leaving him there."

"My reasons are very good ones, Poppy.  You know I would not insist otherwise."

She sighs.  "I'm sorry, Albus, but I just don't see how he can stay there.  If nothing else the anti-disease and anti-poison draughts will likely make him feverish and nauseated, even if he doesn't have a severe reaction to them.  He really needs someone to look after him, and from what you tell me those muggles he lives with aren't the ones to do it."

Remus is watching me with a worried expression.  What a fine mess this is!  Either I endanger Harry's health or I let the protections collapse, meaning all the pain he has been through at the Dursley's will have been for nothing.

"I will stay with, Harry," Remus says quietly.  He looks at me intently.

"I'm sorry, Remus, we need you coordinating things on the outside."  I rub my hand across my forehead, thinking rapidly.

"Let someone else do that!  Harry needs somebody in the house with him!"  

"There isn't anybody we can spare, Remus.  You know we are desperately short handed even as it is!"  If there was somebody else we could trust, that would be a different story.  But we only dare entrust Harry to members of the Order.  Or do we?  "I have an idea!"

"What?" Remus asks.

"Let me check a few things first.  I think I know a way around our problem."

"If you think so," Poppy says doubtfully.

"Poppy, I need to give Harry a few practical tests this afternoon.  Will he be able to do that?"

"Practical tests?" Poppy says, even more doubtfully.

"Yes, in Occlumency."

"I can't recommend it, Albus.  That is a stressful exercise, and I doubt he will be able to undergo much stress."

"Poppy," I say gently, "this is VERY important.  I don't intend to do much.  But I have to evaluate his progress."

"Albus, I just don't think it's proper."

"I must, Poppy. This is for Harry's protection."

"Well," she says reluctantly, "if he lies down immediately after lunch and gets a few hours rest – and if he does not feel too nauseated or feverish when he wakes up.  But you have to keep it short and DON'T PUSH."

"I'll be gentle as a lamb, Poppy."

"Very well.  I'll leave some healing potions along with some more anti-disease and anti-toxin draughts.  Whoever looks after him will have to make sure he takes them for the next few days."

"As you wish."

"In that case," she says, "I have to be getting back to Hogwarts.  I have an entire medicine room to stock."

"I will accompany you," I volunteer.  "Remus, why don't you stay and have lunch.  Make sure that Harry takes his rest.  It will do him good to get into the habit of taking naps anyway."

"Why?" Remus asks with a quizzical expression.

"I will explain later.  Let's just say that Harry's schedule this year will have to be slightly different."

Leaving a very puzzled werewolf behind, Poppy and I ascend the stairs and floo back to Hogwarts.

I spend the next few hours catching up on paperwork left over from the end of the school year.  In the midst of everything else it is sometimes hard to find time to actually do the job that goes with my official title.  I also make inquiries with regards to my idea about care for Harry.  To my great satisfaction the inquiries meet with resoundingly a resoundingly positive response.

In the early evening I get a firecall from Remus.  "Harry is awake, Albus.  I don't think he feels very well, but he says that he is well enough for your tests."  The werewolf's voice is full of disapproval.

"I'm coming, Remus.  It will be fine.  We will only keep him a few minutes."

I emerge from Arabella's hearth to find Harry standing awkwardly in front of the couch where Remus and Tonks are sitting.  He still looks tired and depressed, and I promise myself that I really will keep this as brief as possible.

"Hello, Harry," I say trying to give a relaxed smile, "are you rested?"

"Yes sir. But could we hurry?"  His expression is lifeless and I feel a pang deep in my heart.

"Of course.  First, I brought this for you."  I reach into a pocket and pull out a small well-worn book, _Occlumency: Shield of the Mind_.  "I think you will find this very helpful.  I apologize for not giving it to you last year, but I forgot I had it.

"That's OK."  He takes the book and looks at it disinterestedly.

"Are you ready?"  I ask, drawing my wand slowly so as not to startle him.  It is imperative that I rebuild the fragile bonds of trust between Harry and myself, and given Harry's weakened state I think it best to go softly at the moment.

"OK.  Go ahead."

"_Legilimens."  _I focus my probe as a broad wave, washing over his mind.  _A large black dog leaping with bared teeth, ripping into flesh with sharp pain._  Then the image slips away and I find myself pushed back.

"Very good, Harry," I say.  He just nods.  I note that sweat is trickling down from his temple.

"_Legilimens."_ This time I narrow my attack, thrusting deep as with the point of a spear.  _A pink office.  Pain throbbing in my hand as blood drips.  Red lettering scrawled on parchment.  _I am hurled back forcefully.  

I blink and look at Harry.  He is panting and sweating more heavily.  "Good, Harry.  One more time."

He gives a barely perceptible nod.

"_Legilimens_." My strongest attack, hurled as a battering ram.  It shatters the surface of his mind and the memories well up.  _Sirius falling, falling into a veil_.  I am hurled back.  I press forward again.  _Sirius falling._  I am forced back fiercely.

"NO!"  Harry reels back, stumbling.  Remus leaps to his feet, catching Harry in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Harry," I say softly.  "Are you all right?"

He does not answer right away.  I watch him with a deep sense of frustration.  His memories of Sirius are there, encysted away with all the tears he refuses to shed.  I want to attack again, to lance my power into his mind like a needle and tear those boils open, allowing his pain and tears to flow free.  But I do not dare.  I need him to trust me, and he never would again if I did such a thing.

Besides, the pain over Sirius is not the only pain he carries walled away.  From my brief probings I sensed the nodules of sorrow, spread through his soul like cancer.  That is the greatest failure of my abominable arrogance.  I had so casually assumed that any wounds he received at the hands of the Dursleys could be fixed, that any wounds he bore could be healed.  But once again, or perhaps for the first time, I forgot that some wounds cannot be mended.

"I'm OK," Harry says finally as Remus maneuvers him onto the couch.

_No you are not.  If there is anything you are, OK is not it._

I sit in a nearby chair and wait silently.  Harry rests his head in his hands and breathes deeply.  We wait for long minutes.

Remus lets one hand rest lightly one Harry's back, rubbing gently.  Tonks looks on frowning.  The silence grows long.

Remus begins to speak a couple of times, but closes his mouth without saying anything.  On the third try, he croaks, "Why don't you trust us, Harry?"

"What do you mean?" Harry says, not raising his head from his hands.

"Why didn't you tell us about this?"  Remus gently takes Harry's right hand and strokes his fingers lightly over the scars left from Umbridge's "lines."

"And what could you have done?" Harry says bitterly.  He is very pointedly not looking at me, for which I am extremely thankful.

"I don't know, Harry.  But you should have told us."

"It was between me and her," Harry says flatly, pulling his hand away from Remus.  Lupin looks on helplessly.

Suddenly Tonks slides off the couch to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of Harry.  Gently taking his hand in hers, she begins to caress the scarred flesh slowly.  "Harry, if you want to be an Auror, you need to understand that you aren't alone.  Aurors are NEVER alone.  We have to rely on each other.  We have to share our pain and our dangers.  It is the only way we can survive."

He looks up at her with an expression akin to wonder.  "How can you stand it?"

"It isn't always easy," she says softly, "but it is the only way to survive.  The only way to win."

He looks at her silently, but I can see his is trying to digest what she has said.  Finally Tonks grins.  "Now, why don't we show Professor Dumbledore some of the things you have been practicing!"

He smiles.  It is a very small smile, but it is the first sign of happiness I have seen in him since before Sirius fell.  _Bless you, Nymphadora._

"Show Professor Dumbledore your Sniffer!"  Tonks grins and releases Harry's hand as she hauls herself back onto the couch.

A sniffer charm is used by Aurors to detect dark magic.  It is not extremely powerful, but requires sophisticated control in building the spell.  Harry stands again and draws his wand.  Facing me he moves his wand in a vertical arc toward the floor, saying "_Repero."_

A greenish glow comes from the end of his wand, forming itself into a vaguely canine shape.  It seems to sniff the air, then trots toward me as the most powerful source of magic in the room.  As it nears me it begins to grow red.

On a whim I utter a diverting charm.  The sniffer pauses confused.  Then, to my amazement, it seems to shake its head and refocus on me.  I clap my hands in appreciation.  "Very impressive, Harry!"  My Harry is so magnificent!

"Thank you, sir," he says blushing.  "I thought it would be better if I put an anti-obscuration charm into the spell."

"He thought it would be better!" Tonks exclaims with almost maternal pride.  "There are Aurors in third year training that can't do as well."

Harry smiles again, a broader smile this time. I make sure to give him a look of beaming approval.  However, a sudden thought erupts in my mind.

"You have been doing magic outside of school?"  I raise my eyebrow.

Tonks blushes.  "Well, when Harry asked me about the books, I thought it would be a good idea if Kingsley and I went to talk with the people in the Improper Use of Magic Office."

"You talked with Hopkirk?"  That would have been an interesting conversation.

"Oh no.  With her assistants and deputies and such.  We pointed out all the confusion at the Ministry and what was being said in the papers, and reminded them of what a mess it was last year when they charged Harry."

"And?"  Tonks is showing a positive genius for intrigue, something I will have to remember.

"Well, we got them to see that bringing Harry up on charges again this summer would probably not be a wise career move, all things considered."

She blushes even deeper.

Yes, that would have been an interesting conversation.  I give Nymphadora a reproving look (but not _too_ reproving), and explain the arrangement I have made with that office – or rather that I have persuaded Percy to make.

Suddenly Harry closes his eyes and seems to wobble.  Remus quickly guides him back to the couch again.

"I think Harry should probably go back home now, Albus."  Lupin says.

"So do I," I say softly.  "Harry, you are likely to be running a fever for a while.  You might be nauseated as well."

"Madam Pomfrey told me," he groans, obviously getting worse rapidly.

"I have made arrangements for someone to stay and look after you."  I clap my hands sharply.  There is an answering crack from the vicinity of the couch, making all three occupants jump.

Harry manages a weak grin as a brightly clad house elf bounds up to him and hugs him around the knees.  "Harry Potter sir, Dobby is so glad to see you!"

"Hello, Dobby," he says softly, "are you going to be staying with me?"

"Yes sir!  Master Dumbledore asked Dobby if Dobby would stay and take care of Harry Potter sir, and Dobby said yes before any other elf could be getting the job!  Dobby is honored to take care of Harry Potter!"

Remus is grinning and Tonks also has a bemused expression.  Harry looks up at me.  "Are you sure the Dursley's will allow this?"

"I don't think there will be any problem.  Do you have Harry's medicines, Dobby?"

"Yes sir!  Dobby has Harry Potter's medicines right here!" Dobby hoists a large bag.

"Very well then.  Let's be going.  Why don't you meet us there, Dobby?"  We take our leave of Remus.  Tonks and walks beside Harry, while I cloak myself in my charms.  We arrive at the back door of #4 Privet Drive to find Dobby waiting for us in the kitchen.

"Good night, Harry.  Dobby, remember what I have told you."

"Dobby will, Master Albus."

Tonks and I back away from the house.  The young Auror seems somewhat concerned.  "Are you sure this is going to be OK, Professor?"

Just then we hear Dudley's loutish voice bellowing "Where have you been Potty?  You have some nerve sending that freak Headmaster of yours around here!"

"YOU WILL NOT HARM HARRY POTTER!"

_Whump._

"MUMMY!"

"Yes, Nymphadora, I think things are going to be fine."

A/N: For details of Albus' communication with Petunia see my fic "Daddy's Favorite."  Now:

Where did that dog come from?

Has Harry been poisoned?

What is Grindelwald's daughter doing at Hogwarts?

What is so important in Northern Ireland?

What game are Cornelia and the vampires playing?

What will become of Fudge and Percy?

Will Remus overcome his self-doubt?

Will deatheaters attack the twins' grand opening?

What does Voldemort plan to do about Azkaban?

How will Albus deal with his feelings for Harry?

And many other questions, will be answered as our story continues.


	12. Dark Crooked Ones

Author-Dzeytoun

Categories-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update.  I'm about to move and the preparations are a nightmare.

This chapter features the location chosen by Dorel Amindra as her prize for my challenge.  Any violence to the geography of County Derry is entirely my doing.

WallytheWhale asked why Dumbledore keeps calling Tonks "Nymphadora," even though she hates the name.  It's one of his control techniques.  By using a name she dislikes while still speaking to her in a kind and gentle manner, he reminds her that even though he is concerned for her he is not to be bound by her wishes.

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Twelve: Dark Crooked Ones

Wednesday 3 July 1996

2104 GMT 

The Raven Hotel stands on a small rise overlooking the River Bann to the north of Aghadowey proper.  Two semicircles of trees screen the largish building on the north and south sides.  On the west, a winding road stretches toward the Causeway Coast some eight miles distant.  It is a tranquil and beautiful setting; not at all the place one would normally pick for an emergency meeting during a desperate war.

Nevertheless, that is what I have done, and I emerge from a hearth in an upstairs dining room to find most of the Order already awaiting me.  Minerva is looking out one of the windows, evidently taking in the glory of the evening, while Molly and Arthur are at the table looking unusually glum.  Evangeline Price and Kingsley Shacklebolt are deep in conversation.  Mundungus Fletcher and Nymphadora Tonks are playing chess – the muggle version – down the table from the Weasleys.  Bill Weasley is pacing up and down near his parents, looking mad enough to bite someone, while Arabella Figg sits in a large armchair knitting something that looks very much like a sweater for a cat. I momentarily miss Severus, but then see him lurking shadowlike near the hearth.  Remus Lupin won't be coming.  He is so concerned about Harry at the moment that I don't think I could get him away from Privet Drive with the Imperious Curse. 

As I emerge, the proprietor of the hotel, a cheerful looking man named Richard O'Dell, comes forward and offers me a drink.  I take it without hesitation.  Something tells me that we will all need fortification before the night is over.  "Welcome, Professor," O'Dell says smiling, his accent soft, "I have passed your message on to the other parties.  They should be arriving shortly."

"Thank you, Richard."

"Will you be needing food?  Or drink?"  O'Dell is nothing if not the consummate businessman.

"Plenty of drink, Richard."

He beams his approval and bustles out.  Bill Weasley pauses in his pacing to come over and remark on our host.  "Is he a squib Professor?  He certainly doesn't seem to be a wizard."

"No, Richard is not a wizard," I agree.  "But he is not a squib either.  He is, well, something else."  I leave Bill with a puzzled look on his face.  All his questions will be answered soon enough.

Crossing to the elder Weasley's, I take a seat next to Arthur.  "Hello, Albus," he says calmly, although I can see the lines of stress and worry etched deep into his face.  "The twins wanted to join us tonight, but Molly and I forbade it."

"I wish I could forbid a lot of other things!" Molly is redfaced and huffing, but her eyes show that she has been crying recently. "I love those boys dearly, but they are the most thickheaded prats I've ever seen! Honestly, I sometimes think they don't have any idea of reality! You would think they were playing some sort of game! Thumb your nose at the Dark Lord!"

"I take it there is no chance of persuading them from desisting, then?"

"None," Arthur says flatly. "They keep saying that if they let the fear of Voldemort dictate their actions, he will have already won."

"There is something to be said for that position," I allow, "but I wish they would not be so flamboyant.  Tom never did have a tolerance for disrespect."

"We are going to provide protection, aren't we, Albus?" Molly says, half stern and half pleading.

"Of course we will.  The Order will be there in force.  We will also have help from the Aurors' Office.  I have been in communication with them this afternoon."

"Thank you, Albus," Molly says softly.  "But don't think I'm about to let you off the hook about that letter I sent you!  You and I still have some issues to discuss!"

"I would not dream of thinking any such think, Molly," I chuckle.

The door opens to admit O'Dell followed by and elderly man in a long black coat.  The newcomer is white haired and has a face carved with lines so deep they look like they have been made with a dagger.  But his brown eyes are warm and shine with recognition as he hurries up to me.

"Father Brennan," I say softly, rising.

"Professor Dumbledore," he responds.  "It has been far too long."

"Yes.  And we always seem to meet in the most dismal of circumstances."

"That does indeed seem to be our fate!"  He shakes my hand firmly and settles into the seat next to me.

"The last may come at any time, or not," Richard O'Dell explains with a tone of apology.  "She is not to be bound by anyone else's schedule."

"I understand, Mr. O'Dell.  Please show her in when she arrives."

"Oh, she won't need me to show her in," he laughs, "but she might want to be announced."  With a nod to Father Brennan he leaves, but not before supervising a group of staff who quickly load the table with a variety of beverages.

I rise, signaling that the meeting is about to begin.  Silence falls rapidly over the room.

"I think we had better proceed.  May I introduce Father Thomas Brennan, the Director of St. Brigid's Priory."

"Director?" Minerva asks, sounding strangely shy, "do priories usually have directors?"

"No, they do not."  Thomas laughs warmly.  "St. Brigid's, however, has not been a real, functioning priory for some years.  When the last of the monks were relocated it was turned into a meeting and study facility – as well as hosting a few retired priests who, like myself, have seen too many winters and have no close family on whom to rely."

"And this study facility was the repository of whatever the deatheaters stole?" Arthur Weasley asks in a concerned tone.

"Yes, it was.  The most secret part of our collection."

"Not terribly secret, it seems, or very well guarded," Severus drawls.

Thomas is not the least bit put out.  He just cocks his head and answers "You must be Severus Snape."

"Yes."  Severus emerges from the shadows, his arms folded and a look of utter disdain on his face.

"You are just as unpleasant as I had been led to believe.  Pity."  Thomas turns away from Severus and smiles at the rest of the room.  "Unfortunately, Professor Snape is correct.  The testament wasn't as secret or as well guarded as it should have been.  I have tried for years to get it moved someplace more secure, but no luck."

"I thought you were the director?" Molly is obviously confused by the politics and titles of the muggle world.

"I am.  But the testament, although in my keeping, was under the authority of the Holy Office."

"Holy Office?" Minerva frowns  in a confused way.

"You would probably know them best as the Inquisition, my dear."

"Oh."

"Actually, the descendants of the Inquisition."  Thomas sighs.  "They don't burn people anymore, but I'm afraid their temper hasn't improved much.  Besides, if you think dealing with your Ministry is difficult, try to get a decision out of Rome!"

"You know a great deal about our world."  Severus draws even closer.

"Sir," Thomas says flatly.

"Pardon me?" Snape blinks in surprise.

"The proper mode of address when speaking to me is sir or Father Brennan." Thomas looks at Severus sternly.  "I am surprised to find such lack of manners in a teacher.  Then again, you are very young." He waves his hand as if dismissing the matter.  "As for the other, there are many strange things in this life, and when you are a priest you hear about a surprising variety of them."

"Do you know what the Dark Lord is seeking?" Kingsley asks patiently.

"Yes.  Voldemort is seeking to find the resting place of Cromm Cruach."

"Who was that, uh, Father?" Bill Weasley inquires awkwardly, blushing at the unfamiliar honorific.

"Cromm?  A god."

Severus snorts.  He's never been one to respect religious beliefs, muggle or wizardly.

"You should take care of yourself Professor Snape, you'll get pneumonia," Thomas says placidly.  "Ireland tends to do that to Englishmen.  Weak lungs I suppose. Too bad."

"How can he be a god?" Molly is clearly puzzled.  "How can you capture a god?"

"Very easily, if the god is also a statue."

Severus snorts again.

"Yes, definitely weak lungs.  I know a specialist in Belfast you should see, Professor Snape.  Nice man.  Collects china."

"This Cromm is a statue?" Bill interjects.  Over his shoulder I see the door open and Richard O'Dell enter quietly.

"I had better start from the beginning," Thomas says, slipping happily into storyteller mode.  "The heathen Irish knew many beings and races.  They held court with spirits of water and forest.  Their heroes rode with the Tuatha De Danaan.  But they preferred their gods to be concrete and unmoving.  Sacred sites covered Ireland.  Some were stones or trees or wells.  But many were idols of various kinds.  The old Irish sacrificed before these idols – crops, animals, prisoners, and children."

"What did they ask for?" Molly's voice is stricken.

"Oh, the usual.  Bountiful harvests, good weather, victory in battle, many sons, and the like."

"Cromm Cruach likely began as just one idol among many.  He stood in County Cavan, to the south of here in the Republic.  The name Cromm is a word that means simply "crooked" or "twisted."  It was a common Celtic name, often given to people born with withered or bent limbs.  Cruach was a word for "mound."  So his name literally meant "the crooked one on the mound."

"But over time, for whatever reason, Cromm began to grow more and more powerful.  The clans who lived around his mound began to sacrifice to him lavishly.  Eventually they sacrificed one third of all their children before Cromm.  Cromm himself was plated in gold, and the twelve lesser idols erected as his companions were covered in brass.  The area around his mound became known as Magh Slecht, the Plain of Adoration."

"In time Cromm Cruach was known as the Crooked Dark One and the Crooked Bloody One.  The Plain of Adoration was also called the Plain of Slaughter, particularly after a mad king killed himself and three quarters of his people in one horrible ritual.  Cromm was the King Idol of All Ireland.  Whether you believed him to be a god or not, even wizards who have researched this matter agree that Cromm had become the greatest focus of dark power in all these isles."

"That is true," I say, breaking my long silence.  "I have seen many arguments to that effect."

"So the wizards of Ireland overthrew this Cromm?"  Kingsley crosses his arms and frowns fiercely.

Thomas throws back his head and laughs.  He has always had a wonderful laugh, and it has not dimmed with age.  His entire body vibrates.  "Wizards?  Oh no!  Cromm was much beyond the power of wizards.  It took a far greater power than that to overthrow Cromm Cruach!"

"What power was that?" Arthur asks, obviously fascinated.

"The power of a Saint," Thomas says simply.

Arthur blinks.  He had not been expecting that answer.

"Old tales say that Saint Patrick himself confronted Cromm and threw him down.  Threw him down but for whatever reason did not destroy him.  Rather Cromm was imprisoned deep within the earth, the mound that had been his throne now his prison."

"Some time after the time of Patrick, the powers of Ireland began to become fearful of Cromm.  What if he was to be resurrected once again?  Where was the power to oppose him?  So they came together to create defenses – spells, mazes, and wards to hide the exact location of Cromm's mound."

"The powers of Ireland?"  Arthur is engrossed.  "Who would those be?"

"Who would you think?  The Church.  The wizards of Ireland.  The most powerful kings and warlords."

"And they who come now," Richard's soft voice catches nearly everyone by surprise, save Thomas and me.  "If I may?"  The innkeeper walks over to one of the large windows and looks in my direction.

"Please." I say.

O'Dell opens the window and steps back swiftly, a mysterious smile one his amiable features.  Almost immediately the room fills with a soft, barely perceptible sound, not noise but not quite music either.  Rather it is like the wind through the limbs of a tree festooned with small bells.  A pale radiance, roughly spherical in shape, sails through the window like a giant ball of St. Elmo's Fire.  Floating to the floor it expands rapidly and a human form takes shape.  A heartbeat later the radiance is gone, replaced by a stunningly beautiful middle-aged woman with long dark hair and eyes that seem to hold the dying embers of the strange light.  Her robes are the color of a moonless night, and shimmer with an almost metallic consistency.  A large raven perches on her shoulder.

"Welcome, Grandmother," O'Dell says with an inclination of his head.

"Thank you, Richard."  Her voice is surprisingly harsh and dissonant.  It seems to combine the screech of a raven with the jarring rhythm of fencing blades.

I rise and come forward.  "Welcome indeed, Lady Morrigan."

"You must be Dumbledore."  She eyes me with a cold stare.  Then she turns her gaze on Thomas.  "And this would be the one from the Priory."

"Yes, that would be me, Thomas Brennan."  The priest is entirely unphased.  He looks at Richard and smiles.  "So that's the secret of your good luck Richard!  Your grandmother?"

"Actually, there are several 'greats' left out of that title, but Richard is a direct descendant of mine, yes."  Morrigan's fierce expression softens slightly, and I am reminded of Minerva in one of her unguarded moments.  

O'Dell blushes mildly, but Thomas just laughs again.  "Don't worry Richard.  If you don't speak of me holding council with wizards I won't speak of you having Sidhe blood.  Not that anyone would believe either of us in any case."

"No, no one would believe either of you," Morrigan observes sadly.  "There was a time when such a person as Voldemort would not have dared set foot on our land.  There was a time when the least of us could do battle with a half dozen of the foul things he has made his servants.  But the days of our glory are long ago.  Now they walk with impunity almost where they will."

"Before there was Voldemort there was Cromm and his like, Madam, and other enemies as well.  You have never ruled unopposed."  Thomas' voice is calm but stern.

Surprisingly, the great lady of the Sidhe simply shrugs.  "We have never valued peace.  Struggle and battle have always been one of the great joys of our existence, even in this diminished age."

"Be assured," I say, "that Voldemort will provide it."

"So your people were the fourth of these powers of Ireland?"  Severus' voice is languid and thick with his usual sneer.

"You thought perhaps it was the Leprechauns?" Morrigan's raven punctuates its lady's speech with an eerily human chuckle.

We all take our seats again, with O'Dell taking his leave after making sure we still have plenty of beverages.  Morrigan looks at the available chairs, then calmly materializes a black throne-like affair with a wave of the twisted rod she carries in one hand.

"The four powers, of course, did not trust each other," Thomas continues with his story.

"Nor did they have much reason to do so." Morrigan interjects.

"Perhaps not.  In any case, they decided to divide the keys to Cromm's prison among themselves.  They inscribed the necessary passwords, formulas, and maps for getting past the defenses into four books.  Each of the groups then took on of the tomes.  That way it would take the cooperation of all four for anyone to find Cromm's mound again."

"And it was the Church's copy that was stolen from St. Brigid's?" Molly asks.

"More than that, I'm afraid.  The book taken by wizards had a long and complicated history, which I won't bore you with.  Suffice to say that in 1851 the last member of the family guarding the book died without heirs.  She thought the wizarding society of her time was becoming corrupt, and feared to leave the knowledge of Cromm's prison in the hands of wizards.  Therefore she gave the wizards' book into the hands of the Church as well."

"And now Voldemort has half of what he needs?" Bill runs a hand over his eyes and looks pained.

"I'm afraid so," I say with a deep sigh.  "The Lady Morrigan's people still have their book, however.  And the book given to muggles disappeared from history almost immediately."

"The holders of it felt safest concealing themselves for obvious reasons," Thomas admits.

"We do not have our book."

For a few seconds I believe I have heard incorrectly.  Unfortunately, age has done nothing at all to my hearing.  Careful to keep my jaw from sagging open, I look over to Morrigan.  I note that Thomas is doing the same, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Our book was stolen at about the same time your wizards gave their tome over to the Church.  A Dark Wizard broke into one of our enclaves and escaped with it.  We killed most of his followers.  One lived long enough to give us a name – Brightstar.  But we were never able to track down any such wizard."

"It might have helped had you told someone before now," Thomas says softly, his voice tight and carefully controlled.

"As you observed, none of us have ever trusted one another."

For the first time, Thomas' eyes grow dull.  He rubs his palms wearily over his face.

"So," Bill observes, "Voldemort has half of the information, and half is lost to us.  For all we know it may already be in his hands."

"I don't think things are quite that bad," I say, making sure to smile slightly.

"Why not, Albus?" Molly sounds half hopeful and half exasperated.

"As Thomas observed, it would have been helpful had the Sidhe sought help when this occurred, although their reticence is understandable.  Brightstar was not a Dark Lord, but rather an aspirant to the title.  He was a Dark Wizard who was killed in the 1860s, probably very shortly after his raid on the Sidhe."

"I don't remember hearing about him before," Minerva interjects, breaking her long silence.

"He isn't much talked about around Hogwarts.  It would be embarassing, since his son became Headmaster."

"You can't mean who I think!" Severus suddenly looks extraordinarily pale.

"If you are thinking Phineus Nigellus, then I do indeed.  The Dark Wizard Brightstar's real name was Tyrrhenius Black."

Thursday 4 July, 1996

0105 GMT 

  
The meeting doesn't go very far after that announcement.  Or I should say that nothing much gets done.  Instead there is a great deal of general babbling and milling about.  I take the opportunity to quietly have Richard bring up some of his excellent food.  I find it enjoyable to sample something other than house elf cooking every now and again, although I am careful not to let Iris know.

Finally shortly after midnight I manage to return to my office and gratefully prepare myself for bed.  Just as I am ready to crawl in, however, one of those infernal chimes in my office goes off.  I crawl back out, stretch my aching shoulders and throw on a robe. Both shoulders are throbbing and I wonder if I managed to strain them during the battle at Beauxbatons.  Odd, I would have expected more trouble with my knees.

 That particular chime means that Severus is on his way up.  He would not ask to talk at this time of night unless he has some news – unlikely or he would have indicated the fact earlier in the evening – or he was exceptionally worried.

I find Iris waiting for me in my office, her arms folded and one foot tapping the floor.  "Why is Master Albus being out of bed?"

"Professor Snape is coming up, Iris."  To my amusement but not real surprise, my voice sounds faintly apologetic.

"And why is smelly Snape coming to be keeping Master Albus up when Master Albus is needing to sleep like everybody else?"

"You never seem to, Iris."

"Iris is being different.  Iris is being house elf.  Iris is not being able to help it that wizards are not being strong like house elves."  She glares at me and sniffs.

"Please just bring some of that wine that Professor Snape likes.  And some hot chocolate for me."

"OK, Master Albus.  Oh, Master Albus is remembering to remind Dobby not to forget about Harry Potter?"

It takes me a moment to untangle that one.  "About Harry's what?"

"About good Harry Potter's food and milk and naps."

Actually I didn't remind him but I did not need to.  "Dobby remembered Iris.  He packed four blankets for Harry's naps."  Well, actually he packed three.  I put in the one decorated with koala bears.

"Is being good.  If Dobby is forgetting, Iris is whomping him one!"  She emphasizes her point by swishes her feather duster through the air like a sword.

The chimes sound again to indicate that someone, presumably Severus, is at the gargoyle.  When I turn around Iris is already gone in good house elf fashion.

Severus stalks in, looking just as he did at the meeting, or almost any other time for that matter.  He is another one who seems not to sleep.  I know he has nightmares of his past.  I wonder often which is worse for him, the horror that has been or the horror that is now unfolding.

"Severus, please come in!  What brings you to my office tonight?"

"This morning you mean, Headmaster.  I am extremely concerned about the developments that have just occurred, and I thought I had better talk now.  I don't know when I might be summoned."

"Of course," I say softly.  Severus always speaks so calmly of going before the Dark Lord.  It is unsettling.

//More of your handiwork.//

I suppose Tom is right.  The ache in my joints reminds me of just how old I am suddenly.

"Please come in to the sitting room."  I lead the way and am not surprised to find the chocolate and wine already waiting.  Severus eyes the wine with a raised brow, but takes up the glass without comment.  

"So, Severus," I say sitting across from him and sipping my hot chocolate, "I am extremely concerned as well.  But I think you have something more specific in mind."

"Yes, I do.  That wizard Brightstar, did they find the book when he died?"

"If they had I would have said so right away, Severus.  I had not heard the story about him stealing it from the Sidhe until tonight."

"So we aren't sure if he even had it in his possession when he died."  Snape takes an inelegant gulp of his wine.

"Not certain, no.  But I think the odds are very high.  Like most dark wizards, Tyrrhenius kept many caches.  Whatever was in them has probably been aggregated with the rest of the Black family paraphernalia over the years."

"Would Phineus know?" He gulps again.

"Not likely."  I had thought of that myself, but Phineus' frame is empty.  He has taken to spending a lot of his time at 12 Grimmauld Place, lost in memory and mourning.  "Knowledge that specific almost never gets transferred to portraits.  Besides, Phineus loathed the memory of his father.  He would have had little curiosity as to his effects."

"So, it's probably at Black's House?" Severus screws his face up as if he has tasted something particularly sour.

"I doubt that.  We have searched that house thoroughly over the last year.  I don't think there are likely to be any troves there we have not yet found."

"Where then?"

"My guess is in a vault at Gringott's.  Barring that there are other possibilities.  I believe the Black family had some storage areas in Egypt, and I know they maintained a mansion in Spain at one time.  It burned down before Sirius was born but it had crypts and cellars beneath it.  I would not be surprised to find they had other stashes."

"Could it be that the book found it's way into the hands of Narcissa Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Ah, the crux of the matter.  Now I understand why Severus is so worried.  That would be an absolute disaster.  "I fervently hope not.  But I think the probability is low.  As you know pureblood families – especially very powerful ones like the Blacks – like to keep their treasures in the direct line."

Severus relaxes, ever so slightly.  It would not be noticeable to anyone else, but I see his arms and legs relax a minute fraction and his sneer broaden just a tiny bit.

//Ah, the Snape smile.//

You take what you can get, sometimes.

"How do you plan to find this book, Headmaster?  With Black gone, there is no one to guide us."  Severus has a small spark of glee out of his eyes at the idea of Sirius' death, although he is careful to keep his face and voice under control.

I grind my teeth in annoyance.  As much as I admire and trust Severus, as much as I lean on him, I often have a strong urge to slap him silly.  Still, I keep my smile in place and say evenly, "I suspect the will is going to help us there."

"Black's will?" Snape looks like he's tasted something sour again.

"Yes, Sirius had a new will drawn up very recently.  I was going to wait and have it read in conjunction with his memorial next weekend.  However, I think we had better move things along as quickly as possible."

"So you think he will reveal the location of any treasure troves to us?"

"Well, not to us Severus.  To his heir or heirs."  I smile calmly as Severus sniffs and chews on that thought.

"And we know who that heir is."  He says it a flat statement weighted with disdain.

"I think it is certain that he left nearly everything to Harry, yes."  I fold my hands and give Severus my kindly-but-slightly-befuddled grandfather smile.  "I also suspect he left bequests to Remus Lupin and a few other people.  But in terms of what we seek, I strongly suspect it will be somewhere amidst Harry's inheritance."

He relaxes just a little more.  That is a bad sign.  He only relaxes this much when he is relishing the idea of something vicious and vindictive.  "Then we have only to bring Mr. Potter out of Privet Drive and have him open up the vaults for us."

"Oh, it won't be that simple, Severus."  I let my own smile broaden a bit.  He immediately leans back, his face clouded with wariness.  "We may have several places to search, and the book won't be very big.  It also might be disguised.  That is of course," I reach for another cup of hot chocolate that has appeared on the table, "if Harry agrees to let us search his belongings."

"If he WHAT?" Severus almost spews his wine. 

"Well, it is his property Severus, or will be once the will is read. But I am sure he will give us permission to search thoroughly."

"I would think," Severus hisses through his teeth, "that you would order him to cooperate with us."

"Order him?" I chuckle softly.  "Oh Severus, I'm afraid you exaggerate the extent of my influence over Harry."  That is only partly true.  I do not dare push very hard after recent events.  "Besides, I am not Harry's wizarding guardian."

"And who would that be?"

"I don't know."  The question of Harry's guardianship has always been legally hazy.  Under the terms of James and Lily's wills, that honor fell to Sirius as godfather.  However, when Sirius was taken to Azkaban and Harry to the Dursley's, the whole situation became hopelessly muddled.  I, as Hogwarts' Headmaster, was able to gain permission for Harry to access the Potter family vaults for "educational expense," but my position with regard to him has been largely unofficial.

"Who would decide?"  Snape's eyes are narrowed in interest.

Why does he have such a sudden interest in Harry's affairs?  "Under legal precedent, a wizard who cannot exercise guardianship of a minor has the right to reassign that authority.  My guess is that Sirius named a new guardian in his will."

"Let me guess, the werewolf!" Severus makes a sound that has elements of both snarl and chuckle.

"Yes, Remus would be the logical candidate." There truthfully aren't many other candidates.  I doubt Sirius felt close enough to the Weasley's to name them as Harry's Wizarding guardians, and hurtful as it is to admit, he did not trust me enough to give me the honor.

//Wise man, that dog.//

_Please do shut up, Tom._

"Would the Ministry allow a werewolf to be a guardian?" Snape asks almost sweetly.  So that is it!  He sees another chance to meddle, perhaps as revenge for his defeat with regard to the Cruciatus Curse.

"The legal precedents are mixed," I answer calmly, "but the Ministry could not act without a complaint from someone with standing – meaning myself, the Dursleys, possibly the Weasleys, or Harry himself.  I don't think any of those parties would object to Remus."

"Oh."  Severus looks like a child whose balloon has been popped.  "At least the werewolf will make the brat open the vaults."

"Severus," I say, not bothering to suppress a heavy sigh, "I don't think you should presume what Remus will or will not do."  I don't see Remus _ordering_ Harry to do any such thing. 

Severus reaches for another glass of wine, which has appeared to replace the empty one he set down a moment ago.  Some poor house-elf is working late in the kitchens.  He sips it quietly, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Why didn't you take the guardianship yourself?" Severus asks suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"During those ten years when Potter was at his relatives and Black was in Azkaban, you could have easily assumed full guardian status.  No one would have been inclined to stop you."

"I did not feel it necessary."

//Rather you were afraid that to do so would mean you would have to listen to those uncomfortable feelings you were having in your heart.//

The monster in my chest stirs and flexes its limbs.  When did I first start to love Harry?  When he was first in my arms that Halloween night?  When I watched from afar while he suffered at the hands of his relatives?  When he came to Hogwarts and I had to actually look on him with my own eyes?

What does it matter, anyway? 

Suddenly I put down my cup and lean forward to look more forcefully into Severus' eyes.  That is an uncomfortable experience.  He has learned to close himself completely, and to look into his eyes is to see only blank darkness.

"Severus, what do you want to ask?"

"What do you mean, Headmaster?"  

I lean back and smile.  "I have a game I play with students sometimes.  It has several variants, but the key is that they can ask me whatever questions they want for a limited period and I promise to answer with absolute honesty.  It often has interesting results."

"Do you think me a student, Professor?" Snape's voice is soft but prideful.

"Not at all, Severus.  I think you a man who has not asked me the questions that are really on your mind.  You and I have had several discussions about Harry lately, more than we usually have in several months.  Something is pressing you Severus, and my guess is that unanswered questions have a great deal to do with it.  They have a way of building up in a most uncomfortable way.  So please, ask whatever you wish."

He twirls his wine glass, suddenly fascinated with the way the liquid inside sloshes around.  I have found that this kind of invitation generally brings forth surprising queries, so I wait patiently.

Actually what he first asks is not particularly shocking.  Indeed, I am amazed he has waited this long.  "Four years ago, when you gave Gryffindor 170 points at the Leavetaking Feast, why did you do it?"

"Well, I suspect that even you would not argue that the individuals in question did not deserve the points, Severus, so I suppose you mean why did I do it the way I did?"

"Yes.  Why did you humiliate Slytherin House in that way?  Was it just to make Potter," he clenches his hand around the glass spasmodically, "happy?"

"That was part of it, a large part."

He looks up at me.  His eyes are sparkling, although whether with anger or hurt I cannot tell.

"I have made many mistakes, Severus.  Harry seems to be at the heart of a lot of them.  Yes, I should not have allowed my feelings to move me in such a manner.  But the boy had ..." suddenly my voice stops as an enormous lump appears in my throat, "but Harry had not seen much happiness or victory in his life until then.  Before he came to Hogwarts most of his public experiences had been of humiliation.  The opportunity to make him smile, to send him back to his relatives with a joyous memory to treasure through the summer, was too much to resist.  It was a mistake, I admit.  It was the mistake of an old man who got carried away."

Snape sniffs in disdain and takes a sip of his wine.  "So it was just to make Potter happy!"

"I did not say that, Severus.  I said that was a large part of it.  There were other reasons.  For one thing I wanted to send a clear message to Minerva."

"To McGonagall?" Snape gives me a look of pure surprise.

"Yes.  Recall that most of the reason that Gryffindor had fallen out of the running for the House Cup came from her overly harsh deduction of points when she caught Harry and his friends – and Draco Malfoy – out of bed after hours.  Minerva is a wonderful woman, but her temper gets the better of her good judgment all too often.  By deducting 150 points from Gryffindor for what is, after all, a very common offense she placed her own House in an undeservedly difficult position.  You noticed, did you not, how the first awards I made were 50 points, 50 points, and 60 points?"

"Yes," Severus says slowly, "but I did not see any significance."

"Minerva did, I assure you.  The fact that I had merely restored the points she subtracted, plus adding ten, was not lost on her.  Sometimes the best lesson is a public one, even if the only people who know it is occurring are the teacher and the pupil."

Snape's eyes widen.  I am sure the thought of Minerva as a pupil is extremely novel for him.

"I also felt that a message needed to be sent to certain families – particularly the Malfoys."

"What message was that?" Snape frowns but is paying close attention.

"The Dark Lord was making clear efforts to return.  His reappearance would only be a matter of time.  The Malfoys and the other Deatheater families, many of whom had children in Slytherin, needed to learn that there were those who were not afraid of them – even to the extent of brazenly humiliating them in public.  Fudge and his kind had spent too long trying to deny the existence of evil for the sake of peace.  The Malfoys and others had grown arrogant."  I sigh heavily.  "That was another of my mistakes.  I never should have allowed them to get away with their claims about the Imperious Curse at the end of the last war.  But at the time so many people were desperate to deny that anything of Voldemort survived, and Deatheater money swayed too many opinions.  In the end I felt like it was best to bide my time and hope that memory and common sense would prevail.  I forgot that they almost never do."

Snape huffs in agreement.  For a moment we sit in silence.  "Why didn't you let me fail Potter at the end of his third year?"

"Well, Severus," I say briskly, "first of all Harry's scores were well within the range most Hogwarts instructors would consider passing.  I have often spoken to you about your tendency to set unrealistic standards."

Severus growls and sips his wine.

"Harry had also had an extremely stressful year – not that he ever seems to have any other kind.  Given those two factors, I frankly felt, and feel, that I was well within my professional prerogatives as Headmaster to overrule your decision in that instance."

I reach for my cup while regarding Severus carefully.  Many people wonder why I allow him to remain on the faculty, with his bitter attitude and obvious biases.  The answer is, of course, that I need him because of the valuable information he provides on Voldemort's followers and now Voldemort himself.  However there is another reason.  Ours is in some ways a cruel world, the world of wizards.  The muggles give their children years of education beyond the age of eighteen.  They have enormous institutions that serve as buffers between the realm of childhood and the full responsibilities of the adult.  We have no such luxuries.  Our world is small – absurdly tiny compared to the nations of the muggles – and we do not have the resources to provide such institutions.  Instead we thrust our youth out of the doors of Hogwarts straight into their adult roles.  They leave here to enter a world where prejudice, unfairness, and bitterness are all too common.  Severus gives them the chance to learn how to deal with these things.  I wish it did not have to be so, but better the children encounter them first here than elsewhere.  So I allow him to continue in his injustice and nastiness, watching behind the scenes and quietly acting to counterbalance the worst of his excesses without appearing to do so.

For the same reasons I do not act openly to restrain the intense dislike of Slytherin House present in most of the faculty and all non-Slytherin students.  Like it or not, the Slytherins will enter a Wizarding World in which their House and its values are viewed with deep distrust by most and reflexive hostility from many.  Better they learn the truth here than elsewhere.  

I am always hoping that the smarter students will discover the true lessons in all of this.  That the House rivalries are pointless and petty, even if they are inevitable.  That bitterness and gross injustice only invite retribution.  That arrogance and pride in the end only make one ridiculous.  Unfortunately, few students ever grasp the lessons.  Then again, why should they when Severus has never been able to understand these truths himself?

"Why do you insist that I have patience with Potter?" Severus snaps.

"For the same reason I insist that I have patience with all your students, Severus."

"That isn't true.  You are very particular about Potter.  It's almost like you deliberately keep reminding me of his presence."  Severus leans forward this time, his sharp features making him look like a dark eagle about to launch from its perch.

"You are right, Severus."  I feel a frown forming on my lips and fight hard to keep my face passive.  "You see, I had this odd idea – an old man's fantasy, I admit.  I thought Harry could help you."

"Help me?"  Snape is shocked once again.

"Yes," I say heavily.  "Severus, you are a man of many demons.  Most of them spring from your childhood and your time at Hogwarts.  And James Potter figures very large in your pain."

"I do not deny it."  Snape sits straight, his eyes gleaming again.  "Why must you insist that I pretend that _Potter_ does not bring back all that's terrible?"

"All that's terrible, Severus?  Do not exaggerate.  But I will acknowledge that I know his presence is painful for you."

"AND?" Severus' hands have clenched fiercely.

"And I thought that, given time, you could learn to like him."

"WHAT?" I think Snape is actually going to launch out of the chair.

"A feeble plan.  But you see, he is a likable boy, and quite bright in a particular way.  You really are very alike in many ways.  Both high-tempered and stubborn, brave and brilliant in your audacity."

Snape just splutters in disbelief.

"Oh it's true, Severus.  I thought that if I gave you enough time and patience you would grow to like Harry, at least grudgingly, at least a little bit.  And if you could do that, you could put James Potter behind you at last.  I thought Harry offered you a chance at healing."

He looks at me like he is assessing whether it is safe to leave me alone in order to fetch someone from the mental ward at St. Mungo's.  I don't suppose I blame him.

"I will _never_ forgive James Potter for..." Severus' face contorts as if he is in physical pain, "I will _never _forgive him."

"I know that now, Severus.  Your experience giving Harry lessons in Occlumency made that obvious."  I raise my hand to cut off his protest.  "We have already discussed that, Severus.  Let us not open that sore again."

Snape closes his eyes.  For a moment he goes so pale I fear he is about to collapse.  Then finally he lets out a breath and rises.

"Thank you, Headmaster.  I think that is all I have to ask tonight."

"Good Night, Severus."

I sit for a long time after Snape leaves me.  I recall what the Sorting Hat said about Severus, that his love is poisoned.  Now I understand better what the Hat meant.  It is as if Severus clings to a thorny vine, deliberately piercing his own flesh rather than letting go and finding peace.

But I know why he clings to that vine.  He stays there because he is afraid to fall.  He is afraid of where he might land.  He is afraid there will not be anyone to catch him.  And now he is so thoroughly impaled on the thorns of his pain and bitterness that it would tear him apart to prise him off.  Perhaps long ago it could have been done.  But now it is twenty years too late.

I finally rise and walk into my office.  The portraits are asleep, except for Phineus who is still absent.  Silently I walk over to the windows.

And for the next hour, I look at the night and try to think of nothing at all.


	13. Dies Irae

A/N:

My deepest apologies for taking so long to update.  I was transferred in my job and had to relocate from Ohio to Virginia (I know, excuses, excuses).  But now that I am getting settled on the banks of the Cheseapeake I should be back to a more regular pattern of updates.  As always thanks for all the wonderful reviews. To answer a few questions:

1) The story of Cromm Cruach and Magh Slecht is indeed a genuine legend.  Cromm, the King Idol of Ireland, supposedly stood somewhere in what is now modern County Cavan.  The story of his overthrow by Saint Patrick is also a genuine legend.  How much truth there is to these stories is, of course, hotly disputed.  Certainly stone idols dotted Ireland in the distant past.  But historians debate whether the ancient Celts practiced human sacrifice, and if so to what extent.  I have chosen to use the potboiler version of the Cromm legend for obvious reasons.  In the stories the idol Cromm Cruach is portrayed as a vessel for a malign and demonic intelligence capable of working dark miracles.  What Cromm is in this story, a god, a demon, a statue, some combination, or something else entirely, will be revealed in due course.

2) Three Sickles Short brought up a good point about why Dumbledore does not correct Snape when he uses terms like "brat" and "werewolf," when he always insists that Harry refer to Snape as "Professor."  The answer is that in the wake of OOTP, and particularly the Occlumency episode, Dumbledore is deeply disappointed – not so much in Snape as in his own foolish idealism with regard to Severus and Harry.  Although he still trusts Snape and wishes to help him, he has grown despairing over the possibility of Severus ever overcoming his past and achieving some sort of healing.  Therefore he does not correct him, as he probably would have earlier, because he no longer believes there is any possibility that it would do any good.  Albus does continue to correct Harry, however, because he believes Harry can be saved from Snape's mistakes.  There is a great deal more exploration of this yet to come.  As Albus continues to deal with his love for Harry, he will find himself ever more aware of the fact that Severus wants something he, Albus, is not able to give.

3) A different example of Albus' truth game can be found in my fic "Daddy's Favorite."

4) Lady Artemisu and Aneko Kohana, don't think I've forgotten you.  Your choices will be worked into the storyline.  It's just taking a little while to do it in a logical manner.

5) I am thinking of what story to take up for my third task (besides this one and "Daddy's Favorite.").  I would be interested to know whether my readership would rather see: 1) this same summer as seen through Remus Lupin's eyes, or 2) something entirely different (meaning something that might touch on this storyline but would not be as closely related to it as #1).

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Thirteen: Dies Irae

Thursday, 4 July 1996

1041 GMT 

After my early morning chat with Severus I find it difficult to sleep.  However, I finally drift off before dawn and awake feeling somewhat rested.  As is my morning routine these days, I reach for my spectacles first, and then draw out my string of ward beads.  What I see causes me to shoot upright in alarm.  The three beads that have been glowing the last few days have deepened to a dark red, and two more beads, indicating physical pain and illness, are also giving off a reddish light.  Hastily throwing on my robe and working my feet into my slippers (the pair my brother Aberforth gave me last Christmas that look like miniature goats), I hurry to my office and scrawl a quick note.  Rousing Fawkes with a jab of my finger – and getting an indignant trill in return – I hastily seal the letter and attach it to his leg.  

"Take this to Dobby, Fawkes. Hurry."  

The phoenix immediately disappears in a flash of fire.  I would use the enchanted cell phone Iris has provided, but if Harry is ill I fear that Dobby will not know how to answer it. I move to my sitting room and signal to the kitchens that I am ready for breakfast.  Moments later I am glumly chewing dry toast and remembering how tired Harry looked when we got through with our last session.

Luckily, Fawkes reappears quickly.  I hastily retrieve the note, seeing that Dobby has simply scrawled a reply under my own writing.

"Master Albus.  Harry Potter is running a fever and is very sick at his tummy.  He did not want to take his medicines this morning but Dobby made him.  Dobby made him eat too, but he vomited most of it back up.  He is very sleepy, and Dobby thinks he will probably be in bed all day."

I hiss through my teeth as I read this.  My first instinct is to have Poppy go there immediately and take a look at the situation.  But she did warn us that the medicines would make Harry feverish and nauseated, and our healer has a great deal of work to do restocking her infirmary.  With great difficulty I put the note aside and refrain from doing anything.  Dobby is sensible and capable and he will notify Remus or me if anything drastically wrong occurs.  I consider writing a quick note to Lupin and decide against that as well.  Remus needs to concentrate on his duties.  It will not do anyone any good for him to begin obsessing about Harry's health.

//That is your job after all.//

_And good morning to you, Tom_.

I manage to get through the rest of my breakfast without looking at the ward beads more than three times.  On finishing, I move to my desk and try to concentrate on school business.  It isn't easy, but I do get in an hour's work before breaking and fiercely fighting my urge to pull Poppy away from her restocking after all.  An extended tour of the grounds helps a little, although the gloomy clouds that threaten an afternoon rain seem a reflection of my mood.

I return to my office to find Iris waiting looking suspiciously at a very large North Sea Eagle perched on the guest perch near Fawkes.  "We is having a message, Master Albus," she says slowly, her eyes never leaving the eagle, which is wearing an eagle's usual I-am-smiling-so-leave-before-I-rend-you-asunder expression.  I suppose the eagle might well consider Iris the right size for its lunch.  I pity the poor bird if it tried any such thing.  Iris would have a dozen new feather dusters.

Tied to one of the eagle's legs is a large envelope of a bright blue color decorated with white stars.  As I approach he regally extends the leg and allows me to remove the message.  Upon opening it loud strains of march music fill the room.  It only takes a moment for me to recognize the tune – "Stars and Stripes Forever."  It is, of course, the Fourth of July, and Jefferson Begay has decided to answer my query in his inimitable style.  As the brassy sounds of Sousa echo through my office the grouchy old Navajo's voice shout's out "Happy Fourth, Albus you @#%!@&*!"

At the expletive Iris leaps and Fawkes hisses in annoyance.  Knowing Jeff, however, there is worse to come.  And indeed, as the march plays on Jefferson proceeds with a long oration of gossip and greeting – incidentally accepting my offer to give some lectures on wizarding law next school year – every sentence seasoned by creative profanity and lively, generally sexual, metaphors.  By the end of his message Iris has turned purple, Fawkes is steaming (literally) and even the eagle is wearing a somewhat abashed expression.  Suddenly Jeff's voice drops several levels in volume and the profanity disappears completely, a sure sign that he is speaking of something very serious indeed.

"Albus, I saw Governor Torracco yesterday.  He says there are signs that the Legislature may relent with regard to your request for help, at least so far as to send for more facts.  I know that isn't very much, but with all the trouble in the Northwest and the Yucatan Torracco is taking a political risk even pushing for further discussion.  Also, Anne says she dreamed of you last night.  She says to tell you that the kindly ones are gathering around, and that you will feel their whips this day.  Remember, however, that they wield their lashes out of love, even if not for you.  I know that is a grim way to end, but I'm out of time with this charm.  So farewell, Albus, and I hope to have more news soon."

As Jeff's voice fades the letter disappears in a flash of miniature fireworks.  I sit silently, pondering Jeff's words.  The possibility of movement in the Wizarding State is hopeful, but nothing to count on.  It is his last message that intrigues me most.  Anne, his wife, is a prophetess.  Unlike Sybil Trelawney, her visions are of relatively minor matters – one day in the life on an old friend, for instance.  Also unlike Sybil, her visions are regular and highly reliable.

"Iris, would you be so kind as to fetch something from the kitchens for our guest?" I gesture toward the eagle.  "A fish would be nice."

Iris harrumphs by way of showing her disapproval of such an unorthodox messenger, but dutifully disappears in the way of house-elves.  I quickly scrawl a reply to Jeff and affix it to the eagle's leg.  By the time I am done Iris has returned with the fish – a large trout it appears – which the eagle swallows readily.  Regally nodding to us it flaps away through the open window, leaving behind a muttering house elf who nevertheless cannot resist glancing at her duster and looking enviously at its tail feathers.

"What is nasty mouthed man meaning about kind ones whipping, Master Albus?" Iris asks, turning on me with narrowed eyes.

"I'm not sure, Iris," I reply, sitting down behind my desk and folding my hands with my most scholarly air.

"Master Albus is not fooling Iris!  Master Albus is not being sure but Master Albus is making good guess!"  She shakes the feather duster in my direction to emphasize her annoyance.

"All right.  In the ancient world the Greeks believed in beings called Furies.  They were female demons with wings and horns who carried whips that they used to punish people for their sins – especially sins against family and loved ones.  The Greeks called them the Eumenides, The Kindly Ones, in order to try to – well, butter them up I guess you might say.  As far as we know it didn't work."

"That is doing it," Iris cries, advancing on me with her hands planted firmly on her hips, "Master Albus is going back to bed right now!"

"Back to bed?  I feel quite well, I assure you Iris."

"Master Albus is not walking around when demon-thingies are flying around looking for him!  He is going back under his covers where he is safe!"

"Iris," I say in a placating tone, holding up both hands to ward her off, "the Furies don't actually exist."

"And lots of people are saying nasty Tom isn't existing, either!  That is not stopping him from trying to kill good Harry Potter!"

//She's got you there.//

I begin to marshal arguments to calm my agitated housekeeper, but my train of thought, and Iris' tirade, are cut off by a roaring eruption from the fireplace.  I come to my feet in surprise.  The sound suggests that someone is using the floo network, but the flames are not the normal green of floo transport, but rather a dark and ominous red.  A winged shadow dives out of the central fire, looping around the room before settling onto the perch recently vacated by the North Sea Eagle.  Except the new visitor hangs upside down by clawed feet.

"How interesting," I remark softly, approaching the bat with a careful tread.  I see that it has a rolled-up message tied to one leg with red ribbon, and I have no doubt as to whom it is from.  

"AIEEEEE!"  I recognize the high pitched sound that erupts from behind me and repress the urge to repeat some of Jeff Begay's colorful verbiage.  It is the battle cry of a house elf about to join combat with something disgusting and/or slimy and/or multi-legged that has invaded said elf's tidy premises.  I whirl as Iris charges, her feather duster held high like a mace, one long finger thrust forward and glowing with magical energy.  Before I can cry a warning a small green lightning bolt crackles from the pointing digit and stings the bat into flight with a small cloud of smoke and the smell of burned fur.

"OUT NASTY THING! OUT! OUT! OUT!"  Iris emphasizes her commands with a further flurry of green lightning, leaving scorch marks on the ceiling and cornices.  The poor bat whirls drunkenly amidst the bolts, finally diving out the open window.

I rush to the window and find the bat, which must have been superbly trained or else the recipient of charms to make owl breeders die of envy, hiding beneath the window ledge.  Making what I hope is a comforting gesture in its direction, I turn and give Iris a stern look.

"What was that about, Iris?"

"Bats are being nasty and evil, Master Albus," she replies calmly, suddenly returned to her controlled self, "they are drinking your blood and giving you diseases.  Iris is seeing it on a muggle television program."

"Most of them eat insects, Iris."

"Iris is not wanting to take the chance, Master Albus.  What is a bat doing with the way through the ward on Master Albus' fireplace, anyway?"

I would very much like to know the answer to that myself.  But I do not let my expression falter.

"That is a messenger bat, Iris.  Please get some food for it."

"Insects?  Iris is not being eatanter, Master Albus."

"Well, actually I believe that it is a fruit bat from India."

"What is an Indian bat doing in Scotland with the key to the wards on Master Albus' fireplace?"  Iris puts her hands on her hips and begins to tap her foot.  Her expression looks very familiar.  Suddenly I realize it is the same expression I use when students try to peddle plausible explanations for troublemaking.  Then the elf's face crinkles in disgust once again.  "The nasty thing is leaving a DROPPING on Master Albus' carpet!"

Given that it was trying to avoid being reduced to ashes at the time, I can't blame it for a slight loss of intestinal control.  Still it is probably better to mollify my housekeeper.  "Very well, Iris.  The quicker we feed it and read the message the quicker we can send it away."

Iris sniffs, but finally gives a brief nod.  "Iris is bringing fruit.  But nasty thing is eating it OUTSIDE!"  With a snap of her long fingers she is off to the kitchens.

With great difficulty I manage to coax the bat onto the window ledge, where I detach the rolled up message from its leg.  Iris reappears with a bowl of soft fruits, which she places on the ledge for the hungry creature to devour while she stands aside making noises of revulsion.

As I had surmised the message is from Lady Cornelia.  I smile as I translate her antique Latin, realizing that she has even retained the form used in Roman letters in the Imperial age.

From Antonia Cornelia Ater, called in her breathing days Cornelia Major, to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, one who yet breathes, greetings.  We have dreamed of you of late.  Befouled blood rises.  Beware its treachery.

_Done this fourth day of July, AUC 2336._

_Cornelia_

AUC.  In the Year since the City's Founding.  I suppose old habits are hard to break.

"Is being good news Master Albus?"  Iris asks, watching as the bat takes off and makes its way across the grounds.

"Not especially, Iris."

"How is the bat coming through the wards, Master Albus?"

"I don't know, Iris.  I suspect, however, that someone is sending a message that they are not to be underestimated."

"Harry Potter is not doing well, is he?"

"How did you know, Iris?" I turn to her in surprise.

She smiles sadly and pats my hand.  "Master Albus has been worrying the ward beads all morning."

I look down in surprise and see that she is right.  Feeling somewhat abashed I stuff the beads back into my pocket.  To cover my embarrassment I give a harrumph and make a show of fussing with my sleeves.

"I will be gone from Hogwarts this afternoon, Iris.  Please have Minerva meet me at the main entrance Iris.  We will walk past the wards and apparate."

"Oh, that is being right.  Master Albus is needing to go to the Wheesey-Wheesey's."

"Pardon?"

"The double Wheesey's."

By that she means the Weasley twins.  It is almost time for the Order to gather at their joke shop to plan its defense for the grand opening.

"Iris is doing.  Oh, and Master Albus?"

"Yes Iris?"

"Do not be worrying too much about Harry Potter.  He is having Dobby to take care of him now.  Dobby is being very, very good house elf.  Iris is not telling him that, of course, or he is getting swelled head.  And he is also having the Good Wolf to guard him."

"The Good Wolf?  You mean Remus Lupin, I suppose?"

"Yes, Master Albus.  The House Elves are calling him the Good Wolf.  He is being stronger than he knows."

"Is there anything you miss, Iris?"

"Not much, Master Albus.  Not much."

Thursday, 4 July 1996 1152 GMT 

We arrive in the middle of chaos.  

Or, considering who owns the premises, perhaps it is better to say that we arrive into an expected situation of atmospheric excitement.

For the sake of our activities today the twins have lowered the anti-apparation wards that are part of the standard security in wizarding business establishments.  We have agreed to make our entry point the upper floor of the building, which has been turned into an office.  At the moment, however, it is filled with Glowsnakes, Roaring Roses, Whirling Whippersnaps, and a dozen other examples of small-scale fireworks.

"My goodness!" Minerva looks around with her most pedantic frown.  I, meanwhile, cannot help but grin.  This is exactly how I imagined the twins' shop would appear.

"It appears that the display is emanating from that doorway, Minerva," I say, pointing to an open door in the eastern corner of the room, "let us investigate."

The door lets onto a flight of steep stairs leading down to a largish storage room.  Through a spacious doorway to the left I see what I assume to be the front of the shop.  Another doorway across the room is open to reveal a flight of stairs heading downward.  The room itself is packed floor to ceiling with brightly colored and labeled boxes, bags, crates, and cartons.

The fireworks are spinning outward from near the door to the front shop.  I see in one amused glance what has happened.  A hapless Mundungus Fletcher is cowering under the glare of Molly Weasley.  At his side, resting on a crate, is his pipe where he doubtless left it to set alight something or other, touching off a chain reaction.  George Weasley (or is it Fred, although I never let them know I never could quite tell them apart) is using his wand to quell the worst of the eruptions, while Fred (or is it George?) is relieving Dung of several small boxes and bags that seem to have found their way into his pockets.   Both of the twins are obviously struggling not to burst into laughter as their Mother's tirade accelerates.

"I HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH LACK OF COMMON DECENCY, SUCH DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR, SUCH, SUCH....NINCOMPOOPNESS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!  MUNDUNGESS FLETCHER..."

"To be fair Molly," I interrupt, more to save the twins from breaking into laughter than to rescue Dung from yet another well-deserved scolding, "I don't think "nincompoopness" is actually a word."

The Weasley matriarch whirls and fixes me with a look of annoyance.  I give her my harmless-eccentric-old-schoolteacher smile.  It usually serves to annoy but disarm.  In this particular instance, however, it fails completely.  Molly stalks toward me like a lioness.  "Albus, we have a lot to discuss."

//Meet Fury number one.//

Oh dear.

"I know we do Molly.  And we will discuss it."

"Now, Albus."

"Today, Molly.  Before I leave.  I promise."

For a moment I think she is going to insist that we launch into a set of painful topics immediately.  However before we can go further a very unexpected figure pops through the door to the front shop.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Ginny Weasley says loudly.  Her voice does not sound surprised, nor particularly pleased.  

"Hello, Sir!" Dean Thomas appears behind her, a bright smile on his face.

"Miss Weasley, Mr. Thomas, it is good to see you."  And very unexpected.  I had thought the Weasley children and sundry would be at the Burrow or, in the case of those in the inner circle, at Grimmauld Place.  Their presence here may well make things...difficult.

//Sins catching up with us, are they?//

"Professor Dumbledore." That comes from behind me.  I turn to see Ron Weasley standing at the top of the steps leading to the basement.  His expression is blank.

"Mr. Weasley."

He nods, and then shoots a momentary glance of annoyance over my shoulder in the direction of Dean Thomas.  Aha, so his protective streak is not confined to Harry.

"We have finished with the Fotzbangers, George," Dean says easily.  "Do you want us to start on the Bulging Violets?"

"Sure, I'll show you where!"  George claps Dean on the shoulder and they stroll back through the door.  As they turn Molly gazes after them for a long moment, and to my surprise she gives Dean Thomas a look of dislike very much like Ron's.  Obviously there are depths to Weasley family politics beyond my ken. 

Minerva goes over to chat with Molly and I decide to follow George and Dean into the front of the shop, wearing my "enraptured child" expression (in truth it isn't too difficult to put on).  The displays in the spacious showroom are tastefully and artfully conceived to show off both the colorful and enticing packages and the moving images illustrating the jokes' effects.  I hope the twins have had sense enough to install appropriate safeguards to keep curious youngsters from simply setting off the devices in the store.  However, judging from Dung's misadventure, I would say that the first few weeks of business will be quite lively before the twins' learn all the practical ins and outs of their new business.

Bill Weasley is leaning easily against one of the counters, arms crossed, watching amusedly as Ginny supervises George and Dean stacking boxes of Bulging Violets into a miniature mountain.  Catching sight of me he straightens and nods.  I stroll over to him and wave in the direction of the growing display.

"Your sister has a natural talent of marketing, Bill.  I am sure the twins would be glad to have her here, if she decides to follow that line."

"Oh, I doubt the three of them would make it under one roof for very long, Professor.  Not in business, that is.  Entirely different approaches and all that.  I can see her doing better at Gringott's."

"True.  I doubt she would find goblins very intimidating."

"I wouldn't go as far as that.  Even after some pretty hairy curse-breaking assignments some of the older directors can still make me shake in my boots."  Bill grins however, and I have a hard time thinking that he shakes very hard or very long.  "Why don't we take a walk, Professor?  Dad will be along shortly and the other members of the Order should be coming along in ones and twos."

I almost demur, but reconsider.  Now that Voldemort has returned much of the reason for keeping the Order _per se_ secret is gone, so I need not be so concerned about being seen in public with certain individuals.  And besides, if push comes to shove I can always let it be known that I am simply trying to persuade the twins to return and complete their Hogwarts education.

The effect of Voldemort's return is immediately evident as we step out into Diagon Alley.  The twins have, by means I'm not sure I want to know, managed to secure a prime location near Gringott's.  Normally this part of the thoroughfare would be bustling in the early afternoon.  Instead it is nearly deserted.  As Bill and I stroll only a few shoppers are evident, and even many of them move quickly and almost furtively, as if expecting Deatheaters to jump out of the shadows at any second.

"This is very depressing," I say quietly.

"Yes.  I don't remember the First War very well.  Was it like this?"  Bill looks around with a sober expression.

"Parts of it."

Reaching the mouth of Knockturn Alley we find much more activity.  In contrast to the main street, the shops along that squalid lane appear to be bustling.  "Someone is turning a profit," Bill remarks bitterly.

"Someone always does," I say with a genuine sigh.  

"I suppose it's to be expected.  Evil to ward off evil.  You see it all the time in the curse-breaking business."

"Yes."

We make a wide loop, walking in silence.

"How is your family holding up, Bill?" I ask after a few minutes of quiet strolling.

"Not well," he says flatly.  "The twins are doing the best, what with the shop and all.  But they won't listen to reason or caution – not that they ever have.  Dad's worn to the bone with the Order and the problems at the Ministry.  Mum's a walking nerve.  Ron and Ginny – well, they haven't said much since getting home.  Oh they talk readily enough, even joke.  But they don't talk about ... major events, if you know what I mean.  At least not with us.  I know the owls have been flying overtime, though."

"To Privet Drive, I assume."

"Naturally.  But to Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, too.  And also to Hermione Granger, who's here today, by the way.  It seems like the whole lot of them are drawing inward.  It's almost like they don't trust the rest of us."

//Now I wonder why that would be?//

Good afternoon, Tom.

"Speaking of trust, I noticed that Ron seemed to be rather upset with Mr. Thomas.  I was under the impression the two of them got along rather well."

"Oh, they do.  It isn't anything against Dean personally.  It's just that he happens to be dating Ginny."

"Oh, big brother protectiveness?" I've seen _that_ all too often in my years as a teacher and headmaster.

"Yes, but of a special kind.  Ginny is very precious to all of us, Headmaster, being the only girl _and_ the youngest.  As the next in age, I think Ron feels a special responsibility."

"So, no one is good enough for Ginny, is that it?"  Poor girl.  With six older brothers she'll be lucky to ever get married at all.

Bill chuckles.  "As far as Ron goes, you mean?  Not exactly.  It's more like only _one_ boy is good enough for Ginny."

"Only one?  I don't suppose said boy would happen to have dark hair, green eyes, and a pronounced fondness for quidditich?"  I am proud that I allow only a slight fondness to creep into my voice.

"Why how ever did you guess?  You have it.  As far as Ronniekins is concerned Harry Potter is the only male creature worthy of our Ginny."  Bill shakes his head, his long hair waving like the mane of a giant fox.

"If you don't mind me saying though, Bill, I noticed that Molly also seemed somewhat – peeved – at Dean."

"Mum is peeved at about everything these days.  But you're right, she doesn't care for that situation much.  You see, Mum's an empire builder."  He smiles fondly.  "Her empire is, of course, the Weasley family.  The grand plan is constantly changing, but the latest version, which I believe dates from last summer although I can't be sure, calls for Ronniekins to marry Hermione Granger and Ginny to marry Harry.  The first grandchildren from the couples are to arrive in 2000 and 2001 respectively."

I smile fondly.  That sounds exactly like Molly.  "So Mr. Thomas has inconsiderately butted in on the plan."

"That's right.  Were it anyone other than Harry he was displacing, I think Mum would take it in stride.  But she tends to be a little jealous where he is concerned."

How well I know.  And how much I am dreading the interview I have promised.

"Has anyone bothered to ask Miss Weasley what she thinks of all this?"

Bill grins.  "Good question.  I don't think so, and it's about to drive her mad!"

I pause.  I almost don't ask, but we are on the subject, and it is very important.  "What about Percy."

Bill's face falls immediately.  "Git," he mumbles.  "He still maintains the Ministry was perfectly correct in its attitude.  Ever since Fudge went into St. Mungo's we have heard nothing from him, which is a blessing."

So much for family togetherness.

We arrive back at the shop to find that Arthur has still not appeared.  I decide to take the opportunity to indulge my curiosity.  Leaving Bill upstairs I tramp down to the basement, which turns out to be much larger than I expected.  Large pallets stacked with cartons and crates fill the space.  On one side Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley are counting cartons, or rather Ron is calling off numbers while Miss Granger ticks them off with her quill.  I notice that they seem to be alternating between arguing and finding excuses to stand much closer to each other than is strictly necessary for such a job.  Across the room Kingsley Shacklebolt is methodically running his wand along the wall, muttering the charms that allow him to check the status of the wards the Order has been methodically building in to reinforce the store's standard security.

I walk over to Kingley and wait while he finishes his task.  It is difficult work requiring great concentration and to be interrupted in the midst of the task is...annoying, to say the least.  After a few moments he puts down his wand and smiles a greeting.

"Hello Professor.  It looks like the basement is in good condition."

"I'm glad of that Kingsley.  But to be honest it isn't the basement I'm worried about so much as the upper floors."

"I know.  But it's standard practice to start with the lowest floors."  He gestures with his wand and a complex pattern of interweaving lights appears on the wall, denoting the pattern and state of the wards.  "Evangeline did a very good job."

A small sound like a cough draws my attention around to Hermione Granger, now standing alone in front of a partially unloaded palate.  Out of the corner of my eye I see Ron disappearing up the stairs carrying a pair of bundles.  Motioning for Kingsley to continue, I walk over to Hermione, smiling with genuine affection.  "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Professor Dumbledore, I know we have only been away from Hogwarts a few days, but," she chews her lower lip anxiously, and then presses ahead, "I was wondering...." she falls silent.

"Yes?"

"I've spoken with Harry by phone a couple of times and, well, I know Harry would be _furious _if he knew I was talking to you, and I don't think Ron would be happy either, but..."

I walk slowly over to the nearby crates and sit on a low stack, motioning for her to do likewise.  "You can depend on my discretion, Hermione."

"Harry really isn't doing very well, is he?"  She wrings her hands anxiously.

"No," I answer slowly, "Harry is not doing very well, Miss Granger.  Sirius Black's death has been a severe blow."

"He needs to get _out_ of there!" She looks at me pleadingly.  "We left him there after Cedric died and...." she blanches slightly and looks down at the floor.

Yes, _I_ left him there after Cedric Diggory was killed.  Instead of bringing him to a place where his friends could have comforted him and helped him deal with the trauma of Voldemort's return, I left him locked up to descend into rage and bitter frustration.

"A terrible mistake Miss Granger, one for which I take full responsibility.  I should have listened when you, all of you, tried to persuade me to let him come to Grimmauld Place, or at least to find some secure way of giving him real news.  All I can say is that I was moved by a genuine, if misguided, wish to keep Harry safe."

Hermione looks up and nods tentatively.  "We will get him out soon, won't we?  I promised we would!"  Her expression is still pleading, but her voice becomes almost fierce as she finishes speaking.

"Yes, we will have him out very soon."  I smile my broadest smile of comfort at her.

"Good," she sighs softly.  "I'm so worried!  Harry...I'm afraid he's...._cracked."_

"Cracked?"  As always when speaking of harm coming to Harry, a spike of fear shoots through my stomach.

"Harry...I don't know quite how to say it...he's...."

"Go ahead Miss Granger.  As I said, you can rely on my discretion."

"Well Harry's... Harry's kind of like a diamond."

//Oh wonderful.  Another insipid metaphor.  Now the man is going to go around mooning about his precious diamond!//

Shut up Tom.

"How do you mean, Hermione?"  I reach out and let my hand rest on her shoulder, lightly.

"Harry is so very strong and hard and bright, just like a diamond, but inside he has these...weak spots ... and I don't mean that as a criticism _at all_.  And if somebody hits him just right he cracks, right along those weak spots, just like a diamond."  She continues to wring her hands frantically.

"And what spot weak spot is he cracked along now?"

"Living with the Dursleys all those years...they kept telling lies about him to everybody... his teachers, his neighbors, his schoolmates.  Even if he tried to tell anybody the truth they wouldn't believe him.  Now this whole year he's been trying to tell the truth and he's been disbelieved and ridiculed and persecuted and punished!  It's like having a chisel hammered down right on one of his weakest points."

I withdraw my hand and fold it with my other hand in my lap.  We sit silently for a few moments, she stewing in worry and embarrassment, I in worry and guilt.  Finally I ask "What do you suggest we do, Miss Granger?"

She looks up, surprised.  "I don't know, Professor.  I thought, well..."

Poor child.  Even after everything, she still hopes I have all the answers.

"First we will have him out of Privet Drive.  Soon.  _I _promise!"  I rise and give her shoulder a pat of reassurance.

She smiles at me, a great weight evidently lifted from her mind.  That is my purpose in life.  Or at least, one of my purposes.

Picking up her noteboard, Hermione disappears among the pallets, checking off items on her inventory as she moves.  I walk back to Kingsley, who is finishing up his check of the wards near the stairs.

"Excellent!" Kingsley exclaims when a large rosette blossoms against the wall in bright pastel orange.  "The basement should be secure once the anti-apparation wards are back up!"

"Let us hope," I say, "we can't spare anyone to guard it."  To be truthful I'm not very worried.  Apparating into an unknown and relatively small underground space is an extremely risky tactic, and the wards we have in place should be quite sufficient to 

render the basement secure.

Our conversation is cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  The first person to appear is Nymphadora Tonks.  She looks extremely odd, and at first I only recognize her by her general figure and her bubblegum pink hair.  For a moment I try to determine what sort of modification she has made to her features, and then I realize with a start that she has not modified them at all, it is only her expression that is different.  For the first time since her sixth year at Hogwarts, I am seeing Tonks with a look of anger and frustration on her face.

Coming after her is a surprising figure.  Remus Lupin trudges down the steps as if bearing an immense load.  His shoulders droop, his face is pale and slack with fatigue.  All trace of the energy the werewolf had shown at Arabella's yesterday is gone, and he appears once again sunk into depression and passivity.

"I made him come," Tonks whispers to me as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, "I know you don't plan for him to help on Saturday, but he hasn't said more than sentence fragments all day and Mad-Eye is sick of having him underfoot.  I was hoping you could talk to him."

I suppress a surge of annoyance.  With everything else I have to worry about, asking me to be a werewolf's therapist is a bit much.  Instead I just give a brisk motion of my head to show I have heard.

Remus does not bother to speak to either Kingsley or me.  He just raises his hand in greeting and looks around with a distinct lack of interest.  Then he cocks his head and sniffs.  He truly must be exhausted for such a canine behavior to become evident this far from the full moon.

"How is young, Mr. Potter?" Kingsley asks easily.

Alarm explodes in my mind.  Unfortunately, I am slow to turn my attention from Remus' distressing appearance.  Perhaps, despite my night's rest, I am still fatigued.

"Puking his guts out, poor kid.  At least his wounds from the attack haven't reopened.  But when I checked on him a while ago he was almost dizzy with fever."

I am already wincing when the sharp shriek echoes across the basement. "HARRY WAS ATTACKED?"  Hermione comes tearing around a stack of crates, horrified.  "WHAT HAPPENED?!"

Startled out of his trance, Remus catches her before she can barrel into us like a charging tigress.  "It's all right Hermione.  Harry is safe!"

"SAFE!  HE WAS ATTACKED!  HE'S SICK!  WHY IS HE STILL IN THAT PLACE?"

"Harry is being taken care of, Miss Granger," I say, softly but sternly.  "This is a matter of his security."

"SECURITY!  THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID LAST SUMMER!  HASN'T ANYBODY LEARNED ANYTHING!"  Breaking away from Remus she races past us and up the stairs, sobbing.

With a curse Tonks bounds after her, leaving me with Remus and an apologetic Kingsley.  Waving off Kingsley's apologies, I ascend the stairs slowly, a sense of dread settling in my stomach.

//Now you know what a student feels like summoned to your office.//

Yes, I suppose I do at that.

Entering the back room of the shop, I find what I was dreading.  Everyone is crowded into the space, probably in response to the yells coming up the stairs from the basement.  Hermione is in the middle of the room, crying on the shoulder of a very uncomfortable looking Ron Weasley, who is trying awkwardly to comfort her.  More to the point, Molly Weasley is standing near the top of the stairs, her arms folded.

"Albus, I would like a word with you."  She whirls and walks away, evidently taking my ascent for granted.   Her voice is soft and entirely reasonable.

I follow her, completely puzzled.  I had expected a firestorm.  Instead, she sounds quite calm.  Then I see Bill's face.  He looks as if he is watching an irritated dragon.  Looking over at the twins, I see that their eyes have expanded to occupy most of their faces.

"Would upstairs be agreeable, Albus?" Molly calls over her shoulder.  Bill swallows hard and I swear that Fred (or is it George?) actually jumps.  

Evidently a soft-voiced Molly is a very, very bad sign indeed.  Smiling beneficently in all directions, I ascend the steps into the office space, by now quite free of fireworks.  Molly motions to a small conversation area near one of the windows, and we sit comfortably.

"What is this I heard about Harry being attacked, Albus?"  Her voice is still soft, but now I see her hands.  They are clenched together so tightly that she has driven the nail of one forefinger into the skin of her hand.  A small blossom of blood trickles down unnoticed.

As quickly and forthrightly as I can manage, I relate the story of the dog and its attack on Harry.  When I tell of finding Harry covered in blood her hands spasm and the nail of her forefinger breaks, further scratching her skin.  But when I tell of my decision to leave Dobby in charge she relaxes slightly, and even smiles a little as I repeat what Tonks and I heard as we left the Dursleys' house.

"A dog that resembles Sirius in his animagus form?  That is not likely to be a coincidence."

"I agree, Molly.  But we are doing the best we can."

"Why, EXACTLY, does Harry have to stay with those muggles, Albus?  Please, no mumbling about vague protections.  Why didn't you bring him to us immediately?  For that matter, why didn't you let him come to us last year?"

With a sigh I confess the full story of my actions on the night of Halloween, 1981.  She listens with a bright blush growing on her face.

"SO," she yells, reverting to form, "YOU DECIDED TO SACRIFICE A CHILD FOR YOUR PRECIOUS PLAN?"

"Molly," I say, raising my hands defensively, "I decided to do exactly the opposite.  Try to remember what it was like.  Voldemort was gone, but only temporarily – although I grant I was one of the few to believe that.  It was not at all clear that the Ministry would be able to impose order, in fact it looked likely that we would enter some new kind of civil war.  I had to decide what to do with Harry.  The _fidelius_ charm had failed, which meant there had to be a traitor in the Potters' closest circle.  I didn't have time to sort that out with all of Wizarding Britain possibly on the edge of anarchy.  Meanwhile I knew that even the oldest and strongest wards would likely fall if the dark forces tried long and hard enough.  I might point out that even Hogwarts itself has been shown to be vulnerable on numerous occasions."

"I know _that_!" Molly mutters.

"I did what I thought best for everyone.  Including Harry."

"And who are you, old bachelor that you are, to decide what is best for any child?"  She is speaking softly again, a bad sign.

"Molly, I have made many mistakes in my life.  Perhaps this was the worst of them.  But I genuinely thought I was doing the best thing."  I pause, a sour feeling gripping my stomach.

//Go ahead.  You've got your sword out, now fall on it.//

"But I will admit," I say slowly, "that I knew life at Privet Drive would be very hard for Harry.  I knew that he would suffer there.  But I thought, and it was a foolish thought indeed, that over time Petunia at least could overcome her irrational hatred of magic.  I thought she might be able to accept him and treat him well, especially since she had a child of her own almost exactly the same age.  As you say, nothing but a stupid old bachelor's fantasy."

"Bachelors aren't the only ones to have silly fantasies, Albus."  This sudden shift catches me off-guard.  I look up in surprise so see Molly looking at me with compassion in her eyes.  "When it comes to family and loved ones, we all tend to let our hopes overcome our judgment."  Sorrow suddenly twists her visage and I know she is thinking of Percy.

I remain silent, not trusting myself to speak.  Molly gets up and walks to the window, staring out.

"What did you say to him, Albus?  Why has Harry made out a will?"

//On second thought, give her the sword and let her behead you.//

What should I say?  Isn't it Harry's right to decide who knows the contents of the prophecy?  I have already told Alastor, should I now let Molly in on this awful secret?

Molly turns and looks at me, her face still clouded with pain.  Molly and the others have risked life and limb and sanity to guard the prophecy.  Do they not have a right to know?  Have there not been too many secrets?

But the thing that decides me is that Harry needs the help and support of all the Order.  And to help him they must know what it is he faces.  To guard him they must finally understand the threat that confronts him.  To save him they must know the forces that are trying to bring about his death.

"This is the business of the Order, Molly," I say slowly.  "It is up to Harry to decide if his friends will know or not, at least for now."

Molly frowns, but she does not make any sign of dissent.

"The prophecy... the prophecy tells us exactly how powerful the connection between Harry and Voldemort is.  You already know that the connection is powerful in its positive aspect, by which I mean the aspect that allows Voldemort to touch Harry's mind and vice versa.  But the connection is even stronger in its negative aspect.  So strong that, in the end, it will cause itself to be sundered."

"You are babbling, Albus!" Molly snaps.

So I am.  I am trying desperately to avoid saying what must be said.  

"The words of the prophecy are: _Either must kill the other, for neither can live while the other survives._"  My mouth tastes like excrement.

Molly's eyes widen slowly.  "In other words Harry is doomed to die at the Dark Lord's hand, unless he finds a way to kill the Dark Lord first."

"Yes."

I see her hand approaching, and I could block it easily.  Even in the middle of my second century I am quite capable of defending myself against Molly Weasley, if I wish.  But I do not wish.

CRACK!  Pain explodes along the side of my head and jaw.  My spectacles fly rattling into a far corner of the room.

I make no move to rise or move.  Dimly I hear Molly flee the room, sobbing.  I simply sit, letting my jaw hurt and tears of pain roll from my right eye.  Finally I brush the tears away, relishing the sting of pain my hand causes.

After many minutes I hear someone coming up the stairway.  The unknown person enters the office and treads to the corner before approaching me.

"You had better use some of this balm, Albus," Arthur says in a weary voice, "else you will have one Hell of a black eye."

I accept the proffered jar and apply the healing balm mechanically.  Arthur hands me my spectacles, which I find to be fixable with a simple repair charm.

"Is it true, what you told Molly?"  Arthur looks as weary as he sounds.  He, like Lupin, seems to be aging rapidly as these horrible days unfold.

"Yes.  I am so sorry, Arthur."

"If it is the truth, then it is best that the Order understand.  But did you _have_ to tell Harry, Albus?  Can't the poor child have any peace?"  His voice is pleading, but not angry.

"Not telling Harry cost him his godfather.  By trying to protect Harry I have hurt him more than..." My throat constricts around a huge lump and I fall silent.

Finally I regain control of my voice.  "Thank you for your letter, Arthur.  I will speak to Ron, of course.  And I will consider what you have said about Harry, when I have time."

"When you have time?" Arthur looks at me sadly.  "You are out of time now, Albus.  Do you think Harry isn't thinking every minute he is locked up there in Privet Drive?  Teenage boys think all the time, Albus," he smiles grimly, "despite all appearances to the contrary."

"Why are the children here, Arthur?"

"Because they will not have much chance to get out this summer, I'm thinking.  I had hoped Harry could come to us at the Burrow.  But it is likely none of us will be there.  Am I right?"

"I hope that we may yet have time.  I hope that Harry can still come to you at the Burrow.  But if the war begins in earnest, everyone will be needed at Grimmauld Place."

"Sirius' house will not be a very good place for any of them to be.  It especially won't be a very good place for Harry."

"No.  Has Molly told anyone else?"

"About the prophecy?  Only me."

I rise slowly, the tingling on my signaling that the healing balm is accomplishing its task.  "I think we had better send the children away Arthur.  Then summon all the other members of the Order. Everyone needs to know this.  Oh, but leave Alastor guarding Harry.  I will tell him later."  No need to reveal that Alastor already understands the situation.

"Even Snape?"

I sigh.  "Yes, Severus has a right to know as well."

"Are you sure?  If he is discovered..."

"Severus can shield his mind better than most of us.  And the more he knows of the truth, the better he can help us in Voldemort's inner circle."

"Very well.  I will call for you when everyone has arrived."

"And departed.  Remember, it is up to Harry to decide what his friends know."

"Yes, Albus."

Arthur departs, leaving me to prepare for the revelation to come.  In all too short a time, he comes to tell me that everyone is ready.

They are gathered in the back room of the store.  Arthur tells me wryly that the twins objected most strenuously at being ejected from their own premises.  But Molly will not consent to their joining the Order, and I do not think now is the time to press the issue.  Minerva has transfigured several crates into a table and chairs, so we can all sit.  They stare at me expectantly, except for Severus whose sneer is firmly in place.

"I have decided," I say softly, "that it is time for all of you to know the contents of the prophecy you have been guarding so fervently."

They continue to watch me expectantly.

"It is, as I am sure you are not surprised to learn, about Harry.  It says," I catch Molly's eye – she is watching me coldly, "It says that Harry must kill Voldemort else," I swallow hard, "Voldemort will kill him first.  In any case, one of them must kill the other."

Tonks sags backward as if someone has struck her very hard.  Minerva and Kingsley both look frozen in shock.  Severus' eyes widen and his mouth twitches.  Lupin leaps to his feet, his face a mask of horror, his jaws working but no sound coming out.  Dung begins to utter an unbroken string of epithets that would make Jeff Begay proud.  Arabella looks as if she has been seized by an asthma attack.  

Only Bill, bless him, finds his voice.  "But Professor Dumbledore that just can't be.  It _can't!_  There has to be some way to free Harry!"

"This isn't a curse Bill.  You can't break it.  I wish we could."

"But there must be some way around the prophecy!  Some way to confound it or evade it or... something!"  He suddenly looks very, very young.  The confidant curse-breaker is gone, and suddenly he is a young student again, pleading with the all wise Dumbledore to find an answer.

"I'm sorry Bill.  You can't evade a true prophecy.  That's what makes it a true prophecy."

"But," he refuses to give up, "you always say it's our choices that are important.  But now you are saying that Harry doesn't have any choice at all!  That he never has!"

//Ah, caught in one of our lies, are we?//

"I'm sorry Bill."

"So much for what's right and what's easy!" Bill has flushed red, his rage every bit a match for Molly's, "I guess you should have said what's foreseen and what isn't!"

And then Lupin howls.  I don't mean he cries.  I don't mean he yells.  I don't mean he screams.  I mean he _howls_, the full-bodied yodel of a heart-rent wolf.  We all stop, staring as he collapses, his face buried in his arms, his whole body convulsed with grief.

The table bursts into motion as Molly rushes to comfort the distraught Lupin, Minerva and Arabella suddenly burst into animated conversation, and Severus leaps up.

I make my escape into the front of the shop.  I lean hard against one of the display cases, trying to catch my breath.

"Are you well, Headmaster?"  Severus has followed me and now stands in the center of one broad aisle, as out of place in the joke shop as a hippogriff in a puffskein's nest.

"I will be fine, Severus.  I hope that this revelation helps you understand some things."

He regards me with his dark eyes shining.  "No Headmaster.  In fact, I am even more puzzled than before."

"Prophecy puzzles everyone, Severus."

"That is not what I mean, Headmaster.  I am puzzled by your attitude, as I understand you have known this about Potter for quite some time."

"All of his life, Severus."  I am really too tired for this.

"Then, as I say, your attitude and behavior is all the more difficult for me to understand."

"In what way, Severus?"

"Potter is a weapon, nothing more.  The prophecy makes this clear.  I fail to see why all of this emotional turmoil over an instrumentality."

I close my eyes.  That thing in my chest is stirring again, with a fierce desire to dig its claws very hard into this bitter, ruined child who has somehow found his way into a man's body.

"I have heard it many times Severus.  He is only a tool.  Do not keep expending energy and worry about him.  Use him for his purpose, and then discard him."

"Excellent advice, Headmaster.  I did not realize that others saw Potter's nature so clearly."

I manage a vague smile.  "They weren't talking about Harry, Severus.  They were talking about you."

Snape's jaws come together sharply.

"I told you, Severus.  You and Harry are alike in very many ways.  Meditate on this before you ever mention discarding anyone."

"I did not mean..."

"Yes you did, Severus.  Kindly do not mean it again."

"I..."

"EVER, Severus."

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Good.  Now let's get back to the meeting.  We have a joke shop to protect."

A/N:  The story of how Alastor Moody knows about the Prophecy can be found in "Daddy's Favorite."


	14. How Awful Goodness Is

Author – Dzeytoun

Category – Angst/Drama

Rating – PG/13

Disclaimer – Main characters and settings owned by J.K. Rowling

A/N: Sorry for the delay and the teasing author notes.  Here is a double-length chapter by way of recompense.  Hope you enjoy!

HERE BE MONSTERS

Chapter Fourteen: How Awful Goodness Is

The temperature inside the room seems to have dropped several degrees.  Conversation around the table stops as I enter.  I walk to the head of the table, careful to give no sign that I have noticed.

// My goodness.  Unpopular all of a sudden, aren't we? //

To tell the truth, I haven't felt this unpopular since I was fourteen and accidentally spilled the beans to a prefect about the butterbeer cache my friends had put together in preparation for the coming quidditch championship.  Still, I school my features and movements into serenity.  

Severus, of course, looks angry and agitated.  However no one seems to pay any attention.  Severus is so often angry that one more fit of muttering is unlikely to attract any notice.

"Have you had any chance to speak with the security goblins at Gringott's, Bill?" I ask.

"Yes," his tone is cold, as is his expression, but he answers briskly, "they are well aware of the danger.  However they categorically refuse to coordinate their defense plans with ours."

"That's short sighted of them," Tonks observes, her expression still sour.

"They have little reason to trust wizards," Arthur observes.  "The last Goblin Wars came to an end well within the lifetimes of most of the directors.  I'm afraid wizards did not acquit themselves honorably in that epoch."

"What about the Auror Office, Kingsley?"

"We are receiving complete cooperation so far.  I think that we have a complete defense plan.  Other than Gringott's, our main worry is Ollivander's.  I would hate to imagine what would happen if the contents of that shop fell into Deatheater hands."

"Has Mr. Ollivander been willing to help?" I ask.  The Ollivander family has prized its privacy for several generations.

"To a point.  I have to admit, his back rooms have a security system that wouldn't be out of place in the Department of Mysteries."

_Which Voldemort breached with almost no trouble._

"I take it that the children are going to be at Grimmauld Place?" I address this to Molly.

"We were discussing that."  She is looking at me with a grim expression.  I feel the side of my face prickle.

"Yes, Molly?  I was assuming that Hermione Granger and your family would be at Headquarters, with Harry at Privet Drive."

"Exactly.  We think it's asking too much of Harry for him to stay alone when he is bound to know that an attack is likely."

"But he won't be alone, Molly.  Remus and Dobby will be with him." I nod to Remus, who regards me with a haggard expression.  "They can keep him company."

And keep him from doing something stupid, like trying to take on a battalion of Deatheaters by himself.

"Still, wouldn't it be better if Harry could be with his friends?  I know you said he needs to stay at Privet Drive a while longer, but couldn't we bring him to Headquarters for a few hours?"

"I don't trust Harry at Headquarters, Molly.  Hear me out!" I hold up my hand to forestall a half-dozen surprised interjections.  "Harry... he has a heart to match any hero that has ever lived.  He and his friends make me..." an enormous lump suddenly appears in my throat, "they make me so proud I often feel as if I will burst from delight."

I pause and allow myself to sigh.  "But I must confess that over the years he has also exceeded at terrifying me!  When I found out that he had dashed off to confront a basilisk by himself three years ago I nearly fainted.  When he returned Godric Gryffindor's sword after that little adventure it was all I could do to keep from turning him over my knee and spanking him with the flat of the blade!"  To my relief that heartfelt remark is greeted with a ripple of laughter, and even Molly gives a small smile.  "I fear very much that if Harry is in London he will find some way to reach Diagon Alley and place himself in the very thick of the battle.  And when he has Ron and Hermione with him – well, to be frank, I have found those three possess a synergy that is truly astounding when it comes to finding trouble."  Another, stronger, wave of laughter, and this time Molly joins in.

"But couldn't Ron and Hermione go to Privet Drive?" Bill asks suddenly.  "Just for the afternoon?"

I pause at that.  I have generally discouraged the idea of Harry's friends visiting him at the Dursley's, both for security reasons and to try and minimize the inevitable uproar such visits would entail.  But now my patience with the Dursleys is growing very short, and it would certainly be of benefit for Harry to have his friends at hand Saturday afternoon.

"I will consider it," I say at last. "I truthfully will have to think on it, but I will give the idea fair consideration." 

Molly frowns, but does not make any other protest.

"Meanwhile," I continue, "I think we had better move very quickly with regard to Sirius' will.  I had hoped to put this off until the memorial service, but if the book Tyrrhenius stole from the Sidhe is part of the Black family treasure," I nod to Severus, "it will possibly take some time to find.  Arthur, Remus, could one of you drop a copy of Sirius' will by Hermes Reed's office late today or tomorrow morning?"

"I will," Arthur replies.  "But do you think there will be any problem with having Sirius…" his voice trails off, but we all understand that he was about to finish the sentence with the words "declared dead."

"I don't believe so, Arthur.  The papers I … had signed … yesterday included an appropriate declaration."

"What papers?" Molly asks.

Not wanting to admit the trick I played on her middle son, I simply ignore the question.  "I think we will try to proceed tomorrow evening."

"Professor," Tonks breaks in softly, "is it really necessary to have a reading?  I mean it seems… morbid, and it will probably upset the kids very badly."  I can tell by her tight expression that the "kids" aren't the only ones it would upset.

"There is no legal requirement for a full reading," I hasten to assure her. "But we can't legally be about our business until the heir or heirs have been officially notified.  It won't take long, Nymphadora, and it's best that we observe all the legal proprieties.  Goodness knows, this is an odd enough situation as it is.  We don't want to sow any more trouble than we absolutely have to."

I wait for a sniff from Severus, but for once he holds his peace.

A bell rings from the front.  I assume it is the twins returning.  Molly rises.  "I promised I would watch the children so the twins could sit in on the meeting."

"They don't need a babysitter, Mom," Bill says dryly.

"Maybe not, but they do need a guard, what with Deatheaters and You-know-who about."

But it is not the twins who come through the door leading to the front room.  Rather, it is an elderly goblin with a very annoyed expression.

"Mr. Kord!" Bill exclaims.

"Mr. Weasley," Kord says in his high, screeching tones, "there you are.  I suggest you get moving!"  He nods to me and the others in the brisk, rude goblin manner.

"I told the directors I would be in this meeting this afternoon."

"I am aware of that young man!  But your brothers and sister probably would appreciate being released from their holding cells!"

Bill jumps to his feet in the midst of loud exclamations.  "What...?"

"They were arrested – excuse me, 'taken into protective custody' a few minutes ago.  By order of the Minister's Office.  Odd, isn't the Senior Secretary a brother of yours as well?"

This bored query falls into shocked silence.

A moment later minor pandemonium erupts.  I shout to Tonks and Remus to get back to Harry – orders that are not necessary as Tonks has already apparated and Remus is bolting to his feet even as I finish the sentence.  Bill and Molly are shouting at Kord to explain himself, while Arthur is racing around the table and everyone else is generally getting in the way.

"Your brothers, the twins, brought Miss Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, and Mr. Thomas into the bank to make a small withdrawal." Kord says in response to the shouted questions from Bill.  "As they were leaving they were accosted by agents of the Office of Magical Law Enforcement.  The officers had warrants issued by the Minister's Office to take Ronald Weasley, Virginia Weasley, and Hermione Granger into custody for 'protection from forces known or unknown,' I believe.  When Mr. Thomas and the other two Mr. Weasleys objected, they were also arrested."

"Did you know these agents?" I ask.

"Yes, by sight.  They are legitimate."

"Kingsley!" I turn to the Auror, fighting down panic.  "Get back to the Auror Office and see what you can find out!"

Shacklebolt gives a sharp, affirmative reply and disapparates.

"GIT!" Bill exclaims, kicking a nearby chair and sending it spinning against the wall.  "It's Percy, up to his meddling AGAIN!"  He begins to storm out of the room but his father catches him by the arm.

"Bill," Arthur says firmly, "try to calm down.  Rushing over to the Ministry and exploding will only make matters worse."

"Arthur is right," I say in my calmest voice.  "We have to approach this in a rational, orderly manner."

"Ginny and Ron are sitting in cells!  I'm not going to sit here and do nothing!"

"I'm not suggesting that you do," I say flatly.  "We will proceed to the Ministry immediately.  I am just saying that we need keep our wits about us.  Now please put up your wand, Bill.  Hexing somebody at the Ministry won't help anything!"

"He's right dear," Molly intercedes pleadingly.  "Try to calm down!  We don't need you arrested as well."

"That is a sentiment with which the Bank wholeheartedly concurs," says Kord dryly.

Bill grumbles but I can see that his good sense is beginning to overcome his anger.  With a final angry flourish he sheaths his wand and gives me a brusque nod.

"Very well," I say slowly, ignoring my own racing heart and the sharp ache in my chest, "Bill and I will go immediately to the Ministry and try to sort all this out with the arresting officers.  Arthur," I pause and take a deep breath, "go and see if you can talk to Percy."  

To his credit, Arthur makes no sound of protest, although his eyes wince very slightly.

"I wouldn't ask," I explain quickly, "but you are the only one besides myself who might get into the inner offices without undue delay.  I think it would be best if I went directly to where Ron and Ginny and the others are being held."

"I will go with you," Molly says, taking his hand.  He seems about to protest, but one look at his wife's eyes causes the objection to die in his throat.

With a glance to be sure that Bill is prepared, I apparate to the Ministry.  Bill appears behind me a second later, and we hurry across the atrium to the flights of stairs leading down to the holding cells and the older courtrooms.  I hurry down the steps, making sure to maintain my dignity.  On such errands to the Ministry, it is very important to move quickly without appearing to move quickly.  Such is only one of the many silly aspects of politics.

I hear shouting as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs.  The tones quickly separate into recognizable voices as we move along the corridor toward the holding cells.  One of them sounds very harried indeed.  Another is that of Amelia Bones, head of Magical Law Enforcement.  The third is deep and resonant, filled with contempt and honeyed with the drawling tones of the American South.

We enter the holding area through a large iron door, finding ourselves in a square room.  A door in the opposite wall of the chamber lets onto the holding area proper.  A square table occupies the center of the room, and a large desk sits against the right wall.  A corridor of some kind opens into the room just beside the desk.  The three speakers are standing around the table, glaring at each other.  The current speaker is a tall man with short blond hair.  He is standing with his fists resting, knuckles down, on the table while he looms over a harried functionary clutching a sheaf of parchment.

"And are you fully aware," the blond man asks, his voice with its Southern accent loud but controlled, "that you're about to land yourself in the middle of the worst diplomatic incident in twenty years?"

"Mr. Rand, we had no way of knowing...."

"Bullshit!  You had every way of knowing that you were about to barge in on an ambassadorial reception!  And I still don't have an answer as to who ordered this fiasco!"

"And I have been trying to discover the same thing, Richardson!" Bones interjects coldly.  "Where are the detention orders?"

"Madam Bones, as I've been trying to say, these _are_ the detention orders!"

"Unsigned detention orders?  Since when does this office execute unsigned arrest orders?"  Amelia's cheeks are reddening at an alarming rate.

"Hell of a way to run a railroad, if you ask me!" The American crosses his arms and frowns, ignoring puzzled looks from both Bones and Richardson.

"It is indeed," I say in my coldest tone, striding into the room with Bill at my side, "and it is even a worse way to run a legal establishment.  I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Matthew Rand, Aesculapius Foundation," the man extends his hand but keeps his gaze pinned on the hapless Richardson, "pleased to meet you.  I take it you are here about some students?"

"Yes.  And you?"

"This shit-for-brains sent his thugs to drag off two of my interns from an ambassadorial reception at our headquarters."

Interns?  "Who, if I might ask?"

"Pardon?"  The American had turned his full attention back to Richardson.  "Oh, Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom.  They are interning with us over the summer."

"Are they?"  

Coincidence?  I am too old to believe in coincidence.

"Yes."  Rand smiles then and shrugs.  "To be honest we hired them mostly for the good press.  Heroes and all you know.  The kids get experience and money, their families get them out of their hair over the summer, and we get PR.  Everybody's happy."

Well, that does make a lot of sense.  Aesculapius Foundation?  Oh yes, a medical charity I believe.

"And might I remind you that our officers were attacked!" Richardson proclaims in a scratchy voice.

"And might I remind you that those were war staves the guards were carrying?  Your so-called officers barely escaped being turned into glowing piles of something greasy."

"Illegal weapons sir!  Clearly against international conventions!"

"Oh my!  Jealous because ours are bigger than yours?"  

I honestly think that Richardson is going to burst an artery.  Luckily Amelia intervenes.  "The question is what to do about the people you have in custody!"

"Yes indeed," I hurry to agree.  "I take it Mr. Longbottom and Ms. Lovegood are not among them?"

"You bet your sweet life they're not," Rand snarls.

"So that leaves Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr. Thomas, and the three Mr. Weasleys," I say.

"Well," Richardson says, "Team Gamma has not yet returned."

"From where?"  I allow my eyes to narrow slightly.  Richardson obviously notices, as he goes very pale.

"Surrey," he mumbles.

I feel my hands begin to clench and forcibly cause them to relax.  Even as I do, a familiar and welcome voice sounds from a small corridor that opens into the room just next to the unmanned desk.

"Tonks!" Bill, who has been mercifully subdued throughout our exchange, calls out in an almost merry tone as the young Auror enters, herding two legal officers before her with the tip of her wand.  Both of them are covered from head to toe with pink and green blotches.  The one on the right is limping badly, and the woman on the left is still trying to put out a smoldering fire in her long hair.

"Auror Tonks!" Amelia cries in a scolding voice, "did you have to use this amount of force?"

"Oh, it wasn't me," she replies, chuckling.

"Madam Bones!" the woman with the burning hair blurts out, "we need to have a Tracking Party dispatched to Surrey.  There's an insane house-elf on the loose!"

"Oh, I don't know," Bill observes smiling, "Dobby seems pretty competent to me."

"Indeed." Amelia frowns in my direction.  "One of your protections?"

"In a manner of speaking.  I apologize, but I'm sure Dobby did not expect legal officers to come blundering around without warning or due process."

"I wouldn't have, either."  Amelia turns back to Richardson.  "Now, about these unsigned orders."

"They came from the Minister's Office with the official seal, Madam Bones."

"Why was I not notified immediately?"

"You were in conference with the Aurors about war-planning."

Amelia shoots me a glance full of import.  I incline my head a half-inch to show I have received the message.  Someone timed the arrival of the detention orders very precisely.

"Well," Amelia says, turning a withering glare on the well-wilted Richardson, "since the orders were not signed, this is all doubtless a mistake."

"You are right, Madam Bones, this is all a terrible mistake!"  Percy Weasley exclaims from the stairs behind us.  He limps into the chamber, followed closely by his parents.  Ignoring Bill, who is standing with his arms crossed, face expressionless, Percy moves forward to extend his hand to Rand and me.

"I am glad to hear that, Mr. Weasley," Rand says calmly, his face neutral.

"As am I, Percy," I agree.  I carefully keep my features calm, displaying none of the shock I feel at Percy's appearance.  He is still wearing the same robes he wore yesterday, except they are now uncharacteristically rumpled and stained.  His hair his disheveled, his skin flushed and almost feverish in appearance.  As I look into his eyes I see that the pupils are large, nearly obliterating the irises.  His hand trembles slightly in my grasp.

"Yes, a most dreadful mistake," Percy continues, just on this edge of blithering.  "Minister Fudge sent some instructions from St. Mungo's and they were misconstrued.  He is of course most concerned about the health and well being of our young heroes.  Never meant for this to happen.  No.  Never."  He smiles and for some reason I am reminded of a clown I once saw while visiting the Wizarding State.  It was at a muggle entertainment called a rodeo, and the clown's job was to distract an angry bull while the creature's real enemy, its rider, slipped away.  The clown wore that same desperately cheery smile, only painted on.

Who are you protecting Percy?  Who is sneaking over the fence while you turn flips under our noses?

Molly is crying silently behind her middle son, while Arthur stands with his hand on her shoulder.  On his face is a look that mixes anger, bitterness, pity, and, most of all, love and self-recrimination.  I wonder what words passed between Percy and his parents in the upper levels of the Ministry and I feel yet another weight of sadness settle around my heart.

"If you didn't mean for this to happen, Perce," Bill grinds out between clenched teeth, "then why don't you have this gentleman open the cells and let them all OUT!"

"Yes, of course!" Percy exclaims brightly, as if Bill has just come up with a brilliantly original idea.  "Richardson, let them out at once!"

"But sir, we..."

"You heard the man, Richardson!" Amelia snaps.  "Now do it before this embarrassment gets any worse."

"Speaking of which, I had better get back to my headquarters and try to smooth things over with the ambassador."  Rand pulls himself to his full height and points his finger directly at Richardson's chest, like a wand poised for the killing curse.  "You should know, however, that the Ambassador is not a forgiving man, Mr. Richardson.  You will be hearing more of this.  You can be sure of it!" With that curt warning he whirls, his ornate dress robes billowing behind him in streams of green, blue, red, and silver as he mounts the stairs.

Richardson walks over to the desk, all but pushing the polka-dotted officers to one side.  He extracts a large key ring from one drawer and motions for us to follow as he unlocks the large door leading to the holding area.  We pass through another small anteroom and down a corridor with doors on either side.  Small grills set into the doors reveal that most of the chambers are empty.  But a familiar voice bellows from one of the chambers as we reach the mid-point of our grim stroll, "Oy, when do we get fed!  Or are you just going to let us starve down to skeletons!"

"Fred!" Molly cries.

"It's George, Mother," he says, stepping out into Molly's hug as Richardson opens the door, "honestly woman, can't you tell your own children apart?"  He is grinning however, and so is Fred.  Their expressions are cocky, but unless I am badly fooled, there is more than a trace of relief behind their bravado.

"The rest are this way," Richardson says, pointing with his thumb.

"We wondered where you took them," George spits, his smile vanishing.  "We tried to reason with the gits, but..."

"But you made fools of yourselves, as usual."  Percy's voice is tired, but it holds its old condescension.

Oh Percy, Percy.  Why must you work so hard to cause yourself pain?

//Hmmm, just like our Severus, isn't he?  Give him twenty years and you could bring him to Hogwarts to teach the dear students about bitterness and injustice.//

I'm so stunned at that observation that I momentarily pause in the middle of the corridor, blinking like an owl and probably looking rather ridiculous.  Everyone else, however, is too fascinated by the developing confrontation between brothers to pay attention to me.

"Made fools of ourselves, did we?"  George stalks forward, his fists clenched.  "At least we had to work at it.  Unlike a certain person who strongly resembles a pet poodle and that's in his BEST moments.  Tell me, who takes you for your walks now that Fudge is in St. Mungo's?"

Percy takes in a shuddering breath, but his father steps forward to place himself between the two angry brothers.  "George, calm down!  Percy's here to help!"

"WHAT!  YOU'RE TAKING HIS SIDE AFTER HE HAD US THROWN INTO CELLS!"

"I didn't!" Percy says earnestly.  "I didn't know about it until just now!"

The silence is so thick with tension it feels as if lightning bolts might blaze in the corridor at any moment.  I am frantically examining strategies for defusing the situation while making sure that I maintain my calm, detached facade.  Ah yes!  "I doubt that Ron or Ginny would appreciate being left in a cell while you two settle your differences," I say softly but loud enough for everyone to hear.

George blushes furiously and unclenches his fists.  Percy blinks several times and looks away.  

Richardson takes advantage of the opportunity thus presented to hurry down the corridor.  I move after him, leaving the others to follow.  Up ahead I can hear muffled thuds, as if someone is knocking on the inside of one of the heavy doors.

The jailer pauses at another door and quickly opens it, allowing Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley to spill forth into Molly's waiting arms.  The thuds are coming from just up ahead.  Richardson moves to that door and turns key in the lock, opening the door just as Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas make their latest charge with their makeshift battering ram – a rail they have managed to unscrew from one of the cots.  Flinging dignity to the winds, we scatter as the two teens barrel through the midst of us and straight into the cell across the corridor, whose door is standing open.  A loud crashing sound informs us of the end of this particular misadventure.

"Bloody Hell!" That's Ron's voice, sounding no worse for wear.  The answering groan from Dean Thomas isn't as encouraging, but when the two of them limp into sight they don't seem to be sporting any critical hurts.  Molly embraces both of them, her jealousy of Dean forgotten in the moment of crisis.

"Ron, are you OK?" Percy asks, coming forward.

"Fat lot you care!" Ron replies bitterly, giving his brother a cold stare.

"Ron," Molly intercedes, "it wasn't Percy's fault.  He's trying to help."

I can see Ron doesn't believe this.  For that matter, I don't really believe it either.  Nevertheless he nods and says softly, "I'm OK, Percy."  Looking at his father he says in a louder voice, "Now can we go?"

"That is a fine idea!" I exclaim.  

"Just a minute!" Hermione Granger comes forward and stands in front of Percy.  "I want an explanation!"

"It was a misunderstanding, Miss Granger," Percy says wearily.

"I believe the law entitles us to a more complete accounting, Mr. Weasley."

Oh no.

"Professor Dumbledore can explain it all, I'm sure.  If you will excuse me..." he turns to go.

"Just a moment!" Hermione reaches out and grasps his elbow.

Percy whirls sharply, shoving her back.  "NO!" he snarls. The force of his arm sends Hermione reeling against the wall, where she stands petrified in shock.

Percy's expression changes from anger to surprise to something that might have been akin to remorse.  It might have been, but the expression has no chance to form as Ron's fist cracks hard against his mouth and nose.  He stumbles back, losing his balance as his feet become entangled with each other, and crashes backwards.  Ron, his lips drawn back in a grimace of rage, darts forward and lands a powerful kick in his brother's abdomen.  He draws back his foot for another blow but Bill seizes his by the forearms and hauls him back.

Amelia, who has not spoken a word during our journey into this sad place, now shows the determination and vigor that have enabled her climb to the heights of law enforcement.  "This way everyone!" she orders briskly, pushing Bill ahead still carrying his brother, "We will send help for Mr. Weasley from the upper floors."

Most of our group, still shocked at the sudden burst of violence, moves forward obediently like sheep.  Molly drops to her knees at Percy's side, and Amelia wisely makes no move to stop her.  Arthur also goes to help his son.

We hurry out of the holding area and through the antechamber, back up the stairs into the main floor of the Ministry.  Amelia stops at the security desk, quickly scribbles a note, folds it into an airplane, and sails it off.  She then catches my eye and motions upwards, to where her offices are located.  I nod.

"Bill," I say, "why don't you take Ron, Ginny, and Dean back to the Burrow?  I'm sure Fred and George need to return to the shop as well."

"Bloody right!" George (or is it Fred?) exclaims.  "Grand opening in less than two days and we don't even have the effing cash registers set up yet!"

Amelia and I make our way quickly to the lift area, barely dodging two young racing past with a stretcher floating between them.

"Impressive response time." I say dryly.

"We try."

We ride up and walk to her office in silence.  I sense that Amelia wants to speak desperately, but is forcibly restraining herself.  Finally, as soon as the door is closed, she lets out a long sigh.

"Whew!  I'm sorry to have you come all the way up here Albus, but there aren't very many places in the Ministry I feel safe talking anymore.  I can vouch for the privacy wards on this office though.  I put them up myself and don't let anyone else touch them."

"Excellent policy.  Do you believe that Percy is innocent in this affair?"

"Innocent is always a relative term at the Ministry, Albus, you know that.  It's become more so over the past year.  But in answer to your question, I really don't know about Weasley.  I would like to think that he wouldn't actively connive to have his own family imprisoned.  But who knows?"

"I would like to think that too Amelia.  But like you, I can't be sure."

_The foul blood arises.  Beware its treachery._

Cornelia's letter seems to have been most timely.

"I am sure," I say slowly, "that he is speaking the truth when he says that this affair originated with Fudge.  It has all the earmarks."

"Yes," Amelia replies.  "It is clumsy, idiotic, and tainted with paranoia.  I am a little surprised he would move so quickly after such a public humiliation, however.  I would have thought him too cowardly."

"He is.  I have no doubt someone spurred him on."

"Who?  Deatheaters?"

"No, although they would doubtless laugh long and hard had he succeeded.  This idea, I believe was pushed on him by someone close to him."

"But who has access to him?  He has been in St. Mungo's for the last few days."

"So has Dolores Umbridge."

Amelia lets out a string of most unladylike words.  I sit calmly until her entertaining tirade is finished.

"I have to say," I remark calmly but flatly, "that my views on how to deal with those two have begun to harden.  I will definitely need to visit Madam Umbridge in the future.  I think we should move the complaints against her onto the top of the Wizengamot's schedule."

"Done.  I'll also have St. Mungo's move her into one of their secure rooms.  That way she won't be having any more discussions with Fudge in the near future.  We can justify it, I'm sure, on grounds of her mental condition."

"As for Fudge, I begin to see the wisdom of a no-confidence vote, even if it does cause disruption.  Better healthy chaos than unhealthy stupidity."

"Yes."  She smiles coldly.  But then her smile falters and she looks worriedly down at her

hands.  "There is something else Albus.  Something that does definitely involve Percy Weasley."

"I was afraid of that."  I wait patiently, absently rubbing one aching shoulder.

"When I heard about the arrest of the young Weasleys and Mr. Thomas, I had my staff do a thorough check of our records for any paper trail."

"Thus discovering that the detention orders had not been signed." I surmise.

"Yes, but I found something else.  It seems that several of our older records have been requisitioned by the Minister's office under Mr. Weasley's signature.  And it's definitely his signature, I've checked it against known samples and run the standard anti-forgery charms."

"What are the records?" I keep my voice even, but Amelia is alarmed, and that disturbs me deeply.  Amelia is not one to become upset without good reason.

"Books of law from the Wyrd War period."

"Most curious.  What could Percy want with thirteen hundred year old law books?" I have an inkling, but I hope desperately that I am wrong.

"The books he took deal with the Thrall Decrees," Amelia says flatly.

//Oh my, things just keep getting better and better!//

Tom always did have a succinct way of putting things.

Friday, 5 July, 1996

1021 GMT 

After a sleepless night spent in conversation with Professor Binns, I face the dawn weary and worried.  Iris fusses and fumes, supplying an endless flow of hot chocolate and lemon drops.

The dawn brings the arrival of van Derdecken in his flying schooner, a black-painted affair with fluorescing sails that he anchors to the Astronomy Tower.  He politely requests shore leave for his crew, which is made up entirely of ghosts.  He explains that many of them have old friends among the Hogwarts spirits, and that it has been a relatively long time since they have visited Britain in any case.  Permission being granted, the halls of the school are soon rocking with sea-chanties and bawdy laughter.

Around nine thirty a solemn gray owl arrives from the firm of Graves, Garman, and Reed.  The parchment informs me that the senior partner, Hermes Reed, has surveyed the will of Sirius Black and, provided that certain curious matters (such as what happened to the body) can be cleared up, he is ready to move forward immediately.  I hastily scribble a reply, telling him that by all means we will provide answers to his questions and we will proceed tonight at his offices if it is convenient.

Van Derdecken and the Countess join me for brunch.  My hopes for a relaxing meal are shattered by the energetic Dutchman, who has brought a sheaf of proposals from the Continent, including missives from several groups who could not attend at Beauxbatons.  We spend a couple of busy hours writing replies and preparing the outline for a standardized communication system to be based on that used by the Order.  Having agreed to meet again through the afternoon, the Captain hurries off to make sure all is in order aboard his ship (I gather his second mate is newly dead, newly recruited, and not yet fully trusted), and I request the Countess to take a turn around the gardens with me.

"Your staff is delightful," she says, "and I could spend a year just exploring the castle.  Durmstrang is much smaller."

I observe her carefully.  She is certainly poised and controlled – but then so was her father.  She also has something else of her father's – a hint of ice-cold steel beneath her smile. "So I have heard, although I understand your grounds are quite extensive."

"That is true.  Extensive and largely undeveloped.  I have to admit I find both Hogwarts and Beauxbatons a bit ... over-refined and constricting.  Only that area yonder reminds me of home." She points one long finger in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

"It is filled with centaurs and unicorns, and we have highly reliable reports of an acromantula colony.  I hope your grounds aren't that wild!"

"Certainly!  Not around the immediate vicinity of the Castle, of course, but we encourage all sorts of wildlife in the further regions.  It makes for interesting study.  Also, as our curriculum is more extensive than yours, we require certain...supplies... you do not." The steel in her smile is quite evident this time.

I take a deep breath.  I have been dealing with Tom for far too long, and have forgotten how unlike him Grindelwald was.  Where Tom is a cauldron of boiling hate and anger, always on the verge of explosion, his spiritual predecessor was a dark glacier, whom I never heard raise his voice.  Taunts that will drive Tom into wild, and ill advised, furies would only elicit a bored look from Grindelwald.  "I understand you teach the Dark Arts."

"Not I personally, Headmaster.  They are part of our curriculum, however."  She looks at me with a guarded expression.

"Do you approve?"

"My goodness what a loaded question!  I am the acting headmistress, you know!"  She gives what seems to be a genuine laugh.

"I apologize.  However, you must understand that we here at Hogwarts are very sensitive on the subject of the Dark Arts."

"Yes.  I understand why you would be.  And, between you and me, no I do not approve.  Unfortunately, the school's trustees have pronounced views on the subject and do not invite nor appreciate discussion."  She reaches out and gently caresses a flower.  "Nor do they tolerate dissent on the pureblood issue, before you ask.  It sometimes makes recruiting faculty the very devil!  I even had several sharp disagreements this past year with regard to some of our guest lecturers."

That could of course be a lie, but my instincts tell me she is being truthful.  Besides, it would be easy enough to verify.  Still, that in itself is not enough to allay my suspicions.  My now awakened memories of nearly sixty years ago are flooding back, and I recall that her father, unlike Voldemort, or for that matter his muggle contemporary, Hitler, had little interest in racial purity.  With the logical coldness of a muggle machine, Grindelwald would use and discard whomever he felt might help his rise to power.

// Oh, so _he's _the one that taught you that! //

"I understand that Erkki Mahalan lectured at Durmstrang for a term."  I'm careful to keep my voice neutral.  "The Mahalan family doesn't attend Durmstrang, do they?"

"No.  They go to the Finnish school.  I can't pronounce its name."

Neither can I, so I search for a way to move the conversation forward.  Fortunately the Countess spares me the need.

"Actually Dr. Mahalan was one of my main problems.  He is an excellent lecturer, but I'm afraid one of the students asked his opinion of our pureblood policy.  His answer was not well received by the board."

"Really?"  I take a seat on a strategically placed flat rock and motion for her to do the same.  "What did he say?"

"Something along the lines of how if we really wanted to know the value and effects of pure blood our next guest lecturer should be a muggle geneticist, or even better a dog breeder."

"I am sure many of the students were quite upset at that suggestion."

"Quite. He then pointed out that their are almost no pure lines left in the Western Hemisphere and there has been no dimunition in the per capita birth of magically active children nor in their measurable magical ability."

"For that matter," I observe, "there are relatively few pure lines anywhere in the world.  Were it not for intermarriage with muggles wizards could not survive as a group."

"He said that too.  One of our more conservative students tried to curse Dr. Mahalan on the spot.  He got turned into a pink guinea pig for his trouble."

"Pink?  Dr. Mahalan must have a vicious sense of humor."

"Actually, Erkki himself is quite the sweetheart.  I doubt he's ever raised his wand in anger.  His assistants, however, are fiercely protective.  I suppose in his profession they have to be."

"Yes."  Dealing with mentally ill witches and wizards would definitely not be the safest of occupations.  "I am thinking of having Dr. Mahalan come and give some lectures at Hogwarts."

"Really?  And all this time I was thinking you were pumping me because you are afraid Harry Potter is going crazy."  The smile she gives this time is colder than the arctic.

"And why would you think that?" I try to stay calm, but I'm afraid the catch in my voice gives me away.

"Why would I think Harry Potter is going crazy or why would I think you are _afraid_ he's going crazy?  It comes down to the same answer I suppose.  I take the _Daily Prophet so I can keep up on my English.  I know that much of what it was saying this past year was because of politics, but where there is smoke as the saying goes.  Besides, considering the boy's history it would be amazing if he wasn't going mad.  Believe me, I know."  _

I am at a loss for how to answer.  I need her cooperation desperately, not only for the sake of our budding international cooperation, but also for the budding crisis I sense coming with Harry.  But my trust in her is far from solid.

"I also read poetry to practice my English," the Countess continues, slipping back into a pleasant demeanor.  "My favorite was always Milton."

"_Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven_?" I venture.

"No," she laughs, "although my father might well have thought that.  My favorite is '_Abash'd the Devil stood and felt how awful goodness is.'"_

"An unusual line, to be sure," I say softly.

"Yes, the idea of goodness being awful fascinated me greatly when I was young.  I was so disappointed to find out the word had a different meaning in Milton's time."

"But do you still think that goodness can be awful?"

"Oh certainly.  Take you for instance.  I grew up hating you with all the power in my being."

I close my eyes briefly at that.  It is only to be expected, of course.  Just as Harry's rage is only to be expected, just as Molly's wrath is only to be expected, just as the Order's mistrust is only to be expected.  Nevertheless, it hurts like a dagger wound.

"I know.  I killed your father."

"Oh, I don't blame you for that!" Elizaveta waves the subject away as if it is a negligible trifle.  "He was a terribly dangerous man and besides, he richly deserved what he got.  No, I hated you for letting my wretch of a mother live."

I can only stare at her for a moment.  I remember her mother well.  She was a dark, bitter woman, broken in body and shredded in soul.  

"For a long time," Elizaveta continues, "I thought that 'awful goodness' must mean that goodness is inept.  To kill Grindelwald and leave her behind – what foolishness!"

"It seemed to me," I say softly, "that she had suffered mightily already."

"Yes she had.  Probably worse than I can imagine."

"Then you wish I had killed her out of mercy?"

"Not at all.  I wish you had killed her because she was an evil, conniving, vicious creature whose absence would have made the world a much better place."  Her voice is calm, but her lips twist as if in pain.

"She was to be punished then, because of what Grindelwald had made her?"

"Ah, just as I thought!" She stares at the nearby flowers for a long moment, then looks back to me.  "You are in the grip of a common delusion."

"I seem to be in the grip of many such," I say dryly.

"The idea that all victims resent their pain is widespread but completely false.  Many revel in their suffering.  They seek it out and draw strength from it.  They learn to turn their pain into power."  

"I am aware of that," I say so quietly I wonder for a moment if she heard me.

"I wonder if you are?  My mother was a small darkness who fed on the greater darkness of my father.  But when the great dark was gone, the small dark continued, and had quite enough strength to spread pain and despair in its own right."

"Who am I to judge all that come under my hand, who shall live and who shall die?" 

"Who are you not to?  Perhaps you abandoned your responsibility sixty years ago.  Perhaps that is why goodness is awful, because it calls the good to take up such burdens."

RIIING.  RIIIIING.  RIIIIIIIIIING.

Oh Harry.  If I didn't love you already this would certainly lodge you in my heart.

Elizaveta certainly appears startled.  I don't attempt an explanation, but just hold up one finger and extract the phone from the interior pocket of my robes.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore." His voice sounds tired and strained.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad." The lie is immediately revealed as I hear a spasm of wet coughing.

"You need to rest, Harry."

"Dobby says the same thing.  He keeps making me drink warm milk and lie down."

"Dobby is very wise, Harry."

"It doesn't matter."  His voice drops and is so full of sorrow that I want to cry.

"Of course it matters, Harry!"

"Yeah.  You can't let your weapon get rusty, can you?"  Anger and bitterness now join the sorrow.  I can't blame him.

"Harry..."

"I'm going to the twins' opening on Saturday."

"That isn't a good idea, Harry.  You know that it will be a prime target for attack."

"That's why I'm going.  I want to do this and get it over with."

I close my eyes as I feel icy fingers wrap around my heart.  "Harry, I know how you feel ...."

"NO YOU DON'T!" His voice is hitching now, and I know that he is using all his willpower once again not to cry.  "DON'T YOU EVER SAY THAT YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL!  DID YOU HAVE A SCAR ON YOUR FOREHEAD!  DID YOU LIVE IN THAT DAMNED CUPBOARD!"

"Harry," I say in my sternest voice (well, the sternest I can bear to use with Harry at any rate), "do me the courtesy of speaking in a civil tone.  I believe I have explained these matters to you."

"Yeah," he hisses bitterly, "you told me about your precious plan."

"Harry," I allow my voice to soften with regret, "You know that I would never have allowed you to suffer as you have if I could have seen any other way to keep you safe."

Silence.  I feel a sick feeling settle into me stomach.

// Face it.  Your precious prince hates you. //

"I'm going to go to the twins' opening," he repeats at last.

"No, Harry, I can't allow you to get into the midst of a pitched battle like that."

"Why not?  You said yourself it's what I'm for."  Bitterness again.

The sickness in my stomach grows worse.

"I said no such thing, Harry."

"I'm a weapon," he persists.  "I'm no good unless you use me!"

"You aren't a weapon!" I am speaking sternly once more.  "You are Harry Potter, a young man with friends who love you, teachers who think highly of you, and a very bright future indeed.  That you have a heavy burden of destiny changes none of that.  None!"

"But..."

"You are not ready, Harry," I try to be as gentle and sympathetic as I can, considering that my chest is hurting and my stomach churning.  "A wise warrior does not rush into battle without thinking."

"Have you been talking to Hermione?" His voice is full of suspicion.

"Yes, I have spoken with Miss Granger," I say carefully.

"I knew it!  So you've decided to lock me away so my 'saving people thing' won't get somebody else killed."  He sounds half ready to weep and half ready to strike someone.

"I don't know what you mean, Harry."  What in the world is he talking about?

There is another period of uncomfortable silence.  I hear heavy wet breathing on the other end, and I know that Harry isn't nearly as well as he is pretending.

"I got an owl from some solicitor," he says sullenly, "about Sirius' will.  Are you going to let me go to the reading?"  

"Of course, if you wish.  It isn't required."  To be honest, I'm not sure about the wisdom of having him present.

"I want to.  Sirius named me." I feel a wave of fear wash down my spine.  Harry's voice is utterly calm and bitterly cold.  I imagine his brilliant green eyes, grown sharp as razors cut out of pure emerald.

"Very well, Harry.  I will see you this evening.  Make sure you rest."

"Yeah."

"Is Dobby treating you well?"  I know the answer, but I want to keep talking to Harry just a little longer.

"Yeah.  He's getting blankets ready now."  Suddenly there is another fit of coughing.  When it's finished I here him call, with his head turned from the phone, "Dobby, not that silly koala thing!"

"Goodbye, Harry."

"Yeah.  Bye, Professor."

// So much for buying him pajamas to match the koala blanket. //

I wasn't thinking of doing that.

// Yes, you were. //

No, I wasn't.

// Were too. //

Was not.

// Were too. //

Was not.

// Were too. //

Was no....All right, I was.

I fold the phone and put it back inside my robes.  I had strayed several yards away from the Countess to speak with Harry in privacy, so I walk slowly back to where she was sitting.  I find her bent over the flowerbeds.

"Countess, I…"

"Professor Dumbledore," she says, straightening her back and brushing herself off briskly, "we could go on like this all day and we have much to do.  I sense you want something from me.  Please ask."

Relieved by her adoption of a businesslike manner, I comply.  After hearing my request she looks, to say the least, surprised.

"That would be an unexpected development indeed.  But it would pose many difficulties for everyone involved."  Her face, however, is thoughtful.

"I am aware of that.  However, it might well be our only option if things play out as I fear they will."

"So you are a Seer now?" She smiles and her tone is light rather than sarcastic.

"No, merely very old.  I have seen enough of the world to predict how some things will develop, or not develop."

"And are you ever mistaken?"

"Oh yes, frequently and sometimes badly."

"Well, let us hope that this is one of the times.  But I will give serious consideration to your request."

"I am afraid I must press for an answer within a few hours.  Time is extraordinarily precious, and a crisis might break at any moment."  I try to convey as much urgency as I can without outright pleading.

"I understand.  Now, I believe we have to get back to work."

"Indeed.  I am afraid I must be a rude host and ask you to walk back to the castle alone.  I have some quick business to which I must attend."

"With van Derdecken," her eyes sparkle coldly, "yes you do indeed."

I find the Dutch wizard deep in conversation with the Bloody Baron.  They have hit on some mutual acquaintances and evidently are trading humorous stories, as both of them are laughing so loud the paintings are grimacing and covering their ears.  Pulling van Derdecken aside, I quickly explain the situation and make my request.  Given the Dutchman's blunt nature, it goes surprisingly quickly.  He, like Elizaveta, promises to think about the situation.

I have never been quite sure if there is a God beyond the sky or not.  But I find myself praying fervently as I wait for the nearest stairway to finish rearranging itself.

Friday, 5 July, 1996

1623 GMT

The rest of the afternoon proceeds very slowly.  We – van Derdecken, the Countess, Minerva whom I have asked to join us for the afternoon, and myself - have the irksome task of managing an already mounting river of correspondance from any number of wizarding groups, schools, and governments who were not represented at Beauxbatons or were at the conference and want to continue the discussion.  The task is made a little easier, if more annoying, by the fact that most of them ask the same questions, and so it is just a matter of waiting while the translation quills do their work, grinding out our stock replies in several languages.  It is made infinitely more difficult due to the fact that Minerva and the Countess have come developed an instant and deep antipathy approaching that which exists between Harry and Severus.

The two of them really are a study in fire and ice, what with Minerva's high temper and Elizaveta's glacial disdain.  To wit:

Minerva: "Must you take so long over all these Slavic language translations Countess?  Do I need to transfigure one of these cushions into a clock so we can stay on time?"

Elizaveta:  "No dear, you need to find a translation quill that knows the difference between Bulgarian and Ukrainian grammar.  Honestly who enchanted the thing, a Russian?"

Minerva:  "This dratted Slavic quill is picking up lazy habits from you Countess.  It absolutely refuses to start on the Romanian translation."

Elizaveta (rolling her eyes): "That's because Romanian isn't a Slavic language dear.  There is a reason the place is called ROME-ania you know."

And on and on and on.

After some three hours, we decide that we have answered all the pressing correspondance for the day – and that we must call a truce lest hexes start flying.  I ask Minerva to attend on me in my library in about an hour and retreat gladly into the comfort of my office, where Iris is waiting fretfully.

"Mr. Albus MUST be getting to bed!  He is not sleeping all night because of dry old ghost!"

"I requested Professor Binns' advice, Iris," I answer wearily.

"Well, Iris is giving advice now.  Mr. Albus must sleep.  Is will reading tonight and Wheezy-Wheezy's tomorrow!"

Excellent point.  I am likely to face a pitched battle in less than twenty-four hours and I haven't slept now in more than thirty-six.  It all seems just a little much to ask from a one hundred and forty-six year old school teacher.

// More than you are asking of a fifteen year old boy? //

Thank you, Tom.  You do sometimes put things in perspective.

"Tell you what Iris, I won't go to bed but I will relax.  Why don't you bring my slippers to the library?  Oh, and bring that bottle I brought back from Richard O'Dell's."

"Iris is doing.  Master Albus is promising he will try to rest?"

"Oh, I will try, Iris."

And I will most surely fail.

Friday, July 5, 1996

1623 GMT

I make myself comfortable in my favorite chair and prop my feet, clad in the goat slippers from Aberforth, up on a colorful ottoman.  At my elbow is a bottle of whiskey I bought from Richard before leaving his establishment the night of our meeting in Northern Ireland.  It is deep gold in color, and if you look carefully you can see tiny sparkles in its depths.  This is whiskey distilled by the Sidhe, and it is powerful indeed.  There are legends of mortals sleeping for centuries after drinking it unwittingly.  I rather doubt the legends are true, or at least I doubt that the whiskey alone was responsible for the poor mortals' mishaps, but still I pour and cut the drink with great care.  I drink it carefully, allowing it to trickle down my throat feeling like liquified sunlight.

I really don't want to do this.  I really want to take Iris' advice, to go to my bedroom and burrow under the covers, allowing sleep to take me for the next three hours or so.  But as always, it is not given to me to act as I wish, only as I must.  Looking around carefully to make sure that Iris is not still standing silently at hand as she sometimes does, I reach down beside the chair where I have hidden a particular object from her sight.  Had she seen it, she doubtless would have flown into yet another tizzy, and that is something that I'm not sure I can deal with at the moment.  

// Feelings hurt, are they? //

Yes, they are.  It is ridiculous really.  Albus Dumbledore has his feelings hurt because a student yelled at him.

// Well, now you know what Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger felt like all year long.  Your precious diamond has sharp edges, Albus. //

So he does, Tom.

As I pull the object out of its hiding place, I suddenly feel a surge of anger.  Not rage, not the annoyance of a teacher, but a kind of sad anger tinged with disappointment.  I really had expected better from Harry.  Soon somebody needs to have a stern talk with that boy about how he is hurting the people who love him!  He has every right to be hurt and angry, but these horrible tantrums aren't helping anything!

With that thought, a plop the Sorting Hat on my head and close my eyes.

"Hello, Albus.  My, oh my you have a lot on your mind.  Let's see now, hmmm, oh dear – sorry about Mr. Potter, but teenagers can be like that."

"I have rarely had this problem with my teenage students before."

"That is because before you were dealing with them as the Headmaster and Greatest Wizard in the World.  They were afraid of you.  If you would ask their parents how they behave at home you might be in for a shock."

"I suppose I might at that.  It is very painful, though."

"Of course it is.  It is the monster called Love digging its claws in.  But there is a bright side.  At least this is evidence that Harry is not afraid of you any longer."

"I'm not sure that's entirely a good thing."

"Albus, there you go again!  Every time your love starts to come forth you manipulate it back into its cage.  You've done that to the point that the most common things cause you to go into an emotional crisis."

"Such as?"

"Such as a hormonal teenage boy is outraged by something his elders say, convinced that said elders do not and never can understand him, and proceeds to alternate between sulking and losing his temper.  I'll grant you the circumstances are stressful and extraordinary, and, as you are thinking, Mr. Potter has a right to be severely upset.  Still, the occurrence itself is hardly unusual.  I daresay your friend Arthur Weasley would find it rather pedestrian.  And yet you are ready to fly into small pieces over it!"

// Delightful!  If only Lucius Malfoy could see you now! //

"And for the last time," the Hat breaks in, "STOP THAT!  I told you it makes my seams hurt."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be.  Now, what do you want to talk about?  I sense it isn't Mr. Potter, exactly, that has prompted our little chat.  Not that I mind.  I'm hung up on the first verse of my Welcoming Song and I need a break."

I take another sip of the Sidhe whiskey and let its warmth brace me before answering.  "I want to talk about Remus Lupin."

The Hat does not seem at all surprised.  "Remus Lupin, interesting case that!"  

The sound of horns fills my head.  The upper melody is sweet but mournful, only occasionally showing signs of swift, happy movement.  But below, deep in the lower registers, there is rumbling as if of a storm.  Suddenly the deep tones expand, filling my head, drowning out the melody in an unbridled roar of power.  Then they subside again and the melody returns, tentative and ragged at first, then stronger, until the balance is established once again.

"I assume that was Remus at Sorting?"

"Yes indeed.  As I say, very interesting case.  What can I help you with?"

"Remus has been having great difficulty ever since Sirius' death.  To be honest I find much of his behavior odd and frustrating.  Particularly with regard to Harry."

"Odd?  In what way?"

"He cares deeply for Harry.  So much so that he was not afraid to roar at me a couple of days ago.  Yet, he's deeply reluctant to approach Harry himself.  He's afraid to.  He can hardly be dragged away from the vicinity of Privet Drive, yet the thought of taking a familial responsibility for Harry seems to fill him with depression.  He is mourning Sirius, of course.  I had thought that he and Harry could take comfort in one another.  Yet Remus will hardly hear of it."

"That is most puzzling."  I have the impression that if the Hat had possessed a head, it would be scratching it.

"And most distressing.  Harry is in great danger.  I have learned just within the last day that he is in greater danger than I had thought.  I will need Remus to stay very close to Harry if we are to keep him safe."

"And you hope I can help find a way to resolve his conflicted feelings?"

"Yes."

The Hat is silent for a moment.  When it answers, it is strangely tentative.  "I am not sure.  It has been a long time since Remus put me on."

"Granted.  But I am baffled and any help is better than none."

"True.  Please close your eyes and concentrate on Remus.  Try to let your memories of him, particularly your recent memories, flow smoothly over the surface of your mind."

I comply.  Being long skilled in Legilemency and Occlumency, it is not a particularly hard exercise.  It is, however, distressing, and I find myself longing for another sip of whiskey.

"Very well," the Hat says at last.  "It actually looks rather clear cut."

I resist the urge to reply sarcastically, then remember that the Hat has already read the thought.

"I have indeed," it says dryly.  "But I forgive you."

"Thank you.  Now what is wrong with Remus?"

"He has a problem peculiar to Gryffindors.  His courage has betrayed him."

His courage?  I find it hard to consider Remus a coward.

"I did not say his courage had left him," the Hat interjects, "but that it had betrayed him."

"What do you mean?" I take another drink.  I feel that I am going to need it.

"You yourself have said that there are many types of courage."

"I have."

"Sometimes, a kind of courage that will save a person in one kind of danger will doom them in another.  This is a lesson Mr. Potter learned this year."

"Yes.  So you would say Harry's courage betrayed him?"

"Well, more precisely it was made to betray him.  But the case of Remus Lupin is more complex.  You see, Remus' courage consisted of the ability to accept that which could not be changed."

"Being a werewolf." I say with dawning realization.

"Yes, he was able to accept the fact that he was a werewolf and nothing would alter that.  Later, he had to accept the death of the Potters, and the guilt of Sirius – or his apparent guilt."

"And then the anti-werewolf legislation..." I say.

"And now the death of Sirius.  Yes, all these things he is able to face because of his kind of courage.  But now, now with Harry, he faces a different problem."

"Yes," I drum my fingers against the chair, "he now has a crisis that does not call for him to accept, but to ACT!"

"Precisely.  For the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time in his life, Remus faces a major decision where his experience, his strength, his courage, all point him to do what he knows in his heart is the wrong thing."

"To turn his back on Harry and walk away." I say quietly.

"The way he would probably put it is 'Deal with it and move on' but you are essentially correct.  Of course he can't do that, so he is paralyzed between a heart screaming to him to act and experience that tells him all he can do is have the courage to accept and let the world be as it will."

I nod slowly.  "Yes, I can see how that would work."

"Thank you.  Now, if you don't mind, I really have to get back to my Welcome Song.  And would you all kindly do me the courtesy of LISTENING TO ME this year?"

I return the Hat to its place on the shelf in my office then spend the next half-hour or so in my library, pondering.  Just how am I going to deal with this Remus situation?  And dealt with it must be, and soon.  Events have dictated that.

I am so caught up in my thoughts that I miss the chimes at the gargoyle.  One moment I am alone, the next I look up and see Minerva accompanied by a rather annoyed looking Iris.

"Professor Minerva is being here to talk with you, Master Albus," Iris says.  "I am telling her that you are resting, but she is saying you are calling her." She narrows her eyes and gives me a glare that accuses me of deception.

"Oh, yes.  Well, Minerva needs to relax as well, you see.  I thought she might like a drink of this excellent Sidhe whiskey."

Iris is not fooled for a moment of course, but she dutifully nods and turns to Minerva.  "Sitting down, Professor Minerva!  Iris is fetching you slippers!"

"Oh no, that is...." but Iris is already vanished.

"Have a drink, Minerva."  I carefully pour and cut another shot of the whiskey.

"I don't mind if I do, Albus.  That woman is about to ..."

I never find out what the Countess is about to do because Iris appears at that moment, bearing a pair of house slippers.

"Taking off your shoes, Professor."  Iris accepts the shoes Minerva proffers and slips the new footwear on over her stockings.  She then bows in my direction, smiles slyly, and vanishes.

I wonder for a moment what that smirk was about, but only for a moment.  I catch sight of the slippers she has brought for Minerva, and I suppress a groan.  From the back of my closet she has fished out the very slippers Minerva gave me five years ago – the tartan plaid ones.  I don't object to the plaid, in fact I rather like it.  I object to the fact that when you click the heels together they play a very loud, very out of tune bagpipe rendition of "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies."  Minerva of course, being addicted to bagpipe music both in tune and out proceeds to click the heels together – three times in succession.

The final strains of the third rendition fade just as I am beginning to have sympathy with the Black family tradition of beheading house-elves.  At least it seems to have lightened Minerva's mood, though, for she is able to look at me with a tight smile.  "I hope that we don't have yet another major crisis to discuss Albus.  I think we have quite enough to handle as it is!"

"I wish," I say slowly, "that I could fulfill those hopes, Minerva."

She frowns.  "Another crisis?  At least tell me it's not about Harry this time!"

"Alas, Minerva," I say in a weak attempt at humor, "I am compelled to speak the truth!"

She puts her glass down and runs her hand over her suddenly gray features.  "What has he done?"

"Harry?  He has done nothing."

"What has somebody done to him?" 

"Nothing."

"Then who is about to do something to him?  Voldemort?"  She takes a deep breath and straightens as if squaring her shoulders for a confrontation.

"No.  The Ministry."

"Almost as bad.  What is it this time?"

I quickly relate my talk with Amelia.

"Why would Percy want thirteen hundred year old books?  And what were the Thrall Decrees?  And what does this have to do with Harry?"

"A great deal, I'm afraid."  I manage a weak smile.  "How is your knowledge of that period?"

"History of Magic is not my field," she says flatly.

"A fair answer.  I had to have a long conversation with Professor Binns myself to get at the pertinent details."

Minerva sniffs.  "It must have taken all night."

"Yes it did."  I ignore her surprised look and continue.  "During that time Northern Britain was dominated, as far as the magical world goes, by two loose groups of wizards who were constantly in conflict with each other.  The actual reasons for their struggle were extremely complex, but at the root everything came down to a set of apparently conflicting prophecies.  Or, as they put it, there was a shadow on the Wyrd.  Hence why they are called the Wyrd Wars."

"Yes," Minerva says with the tone of one who is having trouble keeping her patience.

"It became apparent that certain people were central to the prophecies.  In order to further their war aims, on of the groups propagated the Thrall Decrees, stating that such individuals were thralls, that is slaves, of the Wyrd, and as such no longer persons in a true sense.  The other side rapidly followed suit."

Minerva taps her fingers against the arm of her chair and gives a long-suffering look.  "Very interesting Albus.  But that was a thousand years before the Ministry was even formed.  What has it got to do with anything?"

"Because the Decrees are the root of a long legal tradition not much known today.  It is called 'Prophetic Forfeiture'"

Now she suddenly seems interested.  "You mean this has something to do with the prophecy?"

"It does.  You see, under prophetic forfeiture a person named or indicated in a true prophecy can be declared a 'vessel' of that prophecy.  That declaration strips the person of all rights.  They become, in effect, legally nothing more than a weapon."

// My, it seems young Mr. Potter is quite insightful after all, isn't he? //

Shut up, Tom.

"I have never heard of anything like that!"

"It has not been invoked in almost two hundred years.  But those missing volumes tell a big tale."

"You think Fudge and Percy are up to something?"

"And perhaps Umbridge as well, depending on how far back into Fudge's good graces she's managed to worm during his stay in the hospital.  There is only one use for those books, to build a careful case.  The more recent data is probably available in the Minister's private reference collection.  But those books in Amelia's office are probably the only source on the original Thrall decrees to be had in the Ministry building."

"They mean to use the decrees to seize Harry?"

"Absolutely.  They think that once they have him under their control they will have the key to defeating Voldemort.  Then they can rescue themselves from ruin by claiming the credit."

"And what do they think we will be doing?" she asks coldly.

"They expect that while attention is diverted they will be able to deal with us quietly."  I suddenly feel very tired. 

"And Harry?" she asks.

"I'm sure that Percy has convinced himself he means Harry no real harm.  As for Fudge and the others, I suspect they would be delighted for Harry to die a hero's death they can use as a symbol for their own ends." My mouth tastes bad, but I've already had quite enough of the whiskey for one sitting.

"Surely they don't think the public will let them get away with seizing Harry!"

"They will call it something else, Minerva – security precautions, perhaps?  And besides, when has the public ever been a friend to Harry?  Oh, it's fine as long as he's winning tournaments or slaying basilisks.  But the minute he mentioned Voldemort's name they turned on him like a pack of frightened dogs."  I feel very old, and an unaccustomed bitterness laces my voice.  "If they think it will save them from the Dark Lord, the public will hand Harry over to the Ministry in an instant.  They will, however, turn out for the funeral and cry many a tear once Voldemort is safely gone."

"And the Wizengamot?  Would they sit still for this outrage?"

"Would you have believed before this year, Minerva, that the Wizengamot would have sat still for someone like Dolores Umbridge in control of Hogwarts?"  I look her squarely in the eye, not in confrontation, but in sadness.

"No," she says, "no, Albus, I would not."

"To answer your question more fairly, I believe that a properly acting Wizengamot would certainly overturn the prophetic forfeiture precedents.  At least I hope it would.  Despite what Miss Granger thinks, we have learned some things over the centuries.  At least, I hope we have."

"However," I continue, "with Harry under their control the Ministry might feel themselves in a position to try and compromise the Wizengamot once again.  And although I would like to believe they would not succeed, I am not about to wager Harry's safety, or the future of the Wizarding World, on that belief."

"So what are we to do, Albus?"

I sigh heavily.  "We are to do what many have been urging and I have hoped to avoid.  We are going to bring down Fudge's Ministry."

"And risk political chaos in a critical stage of the war?"  The question is clearly rhetorical.

"This war will not have any non-critical stages.  And I do not think we have a choice.  However, the process of a no-confidence vote is supervised by the Wizengamot."

"Which means," Minerva says dryly, "that we have the same problem.  If Fudge seizes Harry, he might feel strong enough to attempt subversion of the law."

"Exactly.  Which means, quite simply, that we cannot let him have Harry."

"Then, unless you propose armed resistance, I take it that you intend to hide Harry."

"Not precisely.  Hiding him would be too risky.  I think we will have to remove him beyond the Ministry's authority until we can remove Fudge from power."

"Beyond... you mean outside of Britain?" Minerva looks shocked.

"Precisely.  Someplace where he would be well-guarded and still in friendly hands and accessible to us, of course."

"Of course," she replies sarcastically.  "Beauxbatons?"

"No.  Madam Maxime would be more than willing, but the Bureau de Magie is riven with factions, some of whom are sympathetic to Voldemort.  The Director of the Bureau is a weak man, and might well cave in to pressure from the Ministry."

"The Dutch Ministry?"

"A strong possibility.  I think they would help if asked, but the Ministry could conceivably put enormous pressure on them.  For that matter, there is no Wizarding government in Western Europe not connected to the Ministry by hundreds of legal and economic ties."

Minerva purses her lips in distaste.  "The Wizarding State then?  The Ministry is hardly in a position to threaten them."

"That would be ideal in many ways," I allow.  "We could maintain ready access to Harry, and Area 51 would find threats from the Ministry ... amusing."

"But?"

"But," I continue, "the political situation is still unclear."  That is an understatement.  Politics in Area 51, the governing complex of the Wizarding State in the American Desert Southwest, is treacherous at the best of times, much less during an international crisis.  "There are many elements in the Wizarding State who regard us with little favor."

"I am well aware of that." Minerva says primly.  

I manage to keep a straight face.  A decade ago Minerva spent a year teaching at the Salem Witches' Institute.  She returned back-arched and spitting all the way across the Atlantic.  

"Nevertheless," she continues, "surely if you made this a humanitarian request, they would not refuse."

"They have done so before," I remind her.

She frowns, then nods.  During the height of the First War, the Wizarding State closed its borders to refugees, stating that Voldemort's rise was, in the words of the late, unlamented Governor Hathorne, "an internal political dispute."

"Who then?"

"I still have hopes for the Wizarding State.  However, in the event that fails I intend to ask Countess Elizaveta to give Harry shelter at Durmstrang."

In her surprise Minerva clicks her heels together and we have to sit through another round of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

"Durmstrang?  But..."

"But it is surely the last thing many people would expect, including I expect many of the trustees of Durmstrang."

"And how do you plan to cope with them?"

"We won't tell them." I say lightly.

I think Minerva is going to choke.  "So you are willing to trust...."

"Grindelwald's daughter, yes."

"To keep Harry's identity hidden from her own trustees?"

"You must admit, Minerva," I say softly, "that hiding things from trustees is something that is not strange to us."

"Why are you willing to trust her?"

"A good question.  Because she has acted in good faith so far.  She has given me no reason not to trust her.  Because if we wish everyone to put aside their differences and come together against Voldemort we must follow our own advice.  And because I may have no choice."

I can tell she does not like the idea at all.  That is very fair, because I don't either.  

"If we have to remove Harry from Britain, how will we do it?  Surely the Ministry will be ready for such a move."

"They will.  If the Wizarding State decides to help us, I will ask them to send one of their Star Chariots.  Otherwise, we will have to ask for help from another new friend."

"Van Derdecken?"

"Yes.  The Dutch Ministry has granted him diplomatic status, so his ship has the protection of a diplomatic vessel.  I don't think the Ministry is foolish enough to openly breach all diplomatic protocol.  It would turn all of the Wizarding World against them."

"And we must be ready." Minerva says.

"Yes, and move as fast as we can to remove Fudge in the meantime."

"Work very fast, Albus.  Work very fast."

Friday, July 5, 1996

1820 GMT

I am about to depart for the reading of Sirius' will when the chimes of the Gargoyle announce the Countess Elizaveta.  She regards my dress robes with a quizzical twist of her head, but I do not deign to give an explanation.

"Countess," I say, "I am afraid that I have little time."

"I do not require much.  I have spoken with van Derdecken.  We are both willing to help you, and young Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, Countess." I pause, wanting to say what is coming next without sounding false.  "I am grateful that what is in the past does not cloud the present."

"But it does, Professor."  She smiles then, a smile that seems to be of genuine happiness.  "You recall when I said I was fascinated by the idea of goodness being awful?"

"Yes."

"Well, I has struck me that one of the most awful aspects of goodness is how effective a weapon of revenge it can be."  Her smile grows wider.

"Revenge.  I am afraid I don't follow you."

"Imagine that someone has wronged you – badly.  What would be the most effective revenge?  Killing?  Hardly, that simply removes them from the arena of action.  Formal justice?  Highly unreliable.  But goodness?  Ah, there is an exquisite revenge.  Particularly if by one's goodness you provide the enemy with life or health or comfort.  Then they must live forever knowing that their very being is dependent upon one who hates them.  What a horrible sense of weakness and worthlessness that must bring!"

"A fascinating psychological thesis Countess, but I still don't follow."

"Why, it is simply this.  I am going to help you not because I think Voldemort must be defeated, although he must be.  I am not going to help you because I feel sympathy for Mr. Potter, although I do.  I am going to help you, Professor, because I have never forgiven you, and I never will.  I hate you.  And because I hate you, I will give my very life to save your beloved Mr. Potter if I have to.  And I hope that you remain in a living Hell because of it."

I am, for one of the very few times in my life, utterly speechless.

"Well, you stand abashed, Professor," she says calmly, "do you feel how awful goodness is?"

A/N: Several people have asked whether I will take this fic into Harry's sixth year.  As of now the answer is no.  I'm just concentrating on getting everybody through the summer.  What comes next we'll have to see.

And now, in a bit of unabashed self-promotion, next chapter we will see the last will and testament of Sirius Black finally revealed, the problem of Remus Lupin takes a new twist, and the events set in motion by the sins of a demented house-elf move toward their fulfillment.  Albus realizes that even he can lose track of time, Hermione is confronted by the fact that not all house-elves appreciate her efforts, and Ron discovers that dreams can become nightmares.  Dobby must make a wrenching decision, a werewolf's nose proves to be a useful but troubling thing, and Remus wants to know just why Albus waited so long to start Harry's occlumency training, anyway.  As events rush toward confrontation in Diagon Alley, Harry makes a crucial request and Albus learns to his horror in just what direction Harry's grief is leading him.  All coming soon in "Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary."


	15. Interlude: Strange Cavalry

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG 13

Category – Angst/Drama

Disclaimer – All main characters and situation owned by J.K. Rowling

A/N:  OK everybody, I've had an enormous amount of trouble with this one.  I know I said the next chapter was "Harry, Harry,Quite Contrary."  That one is coming up, but this isn't it.

As many of you have pointed out, this fic has become strongly plot driven as well as character driven.  This presents some problems.  In particular, it is very difficult to get in everything needed for the plot while sticking exclusively with an Albus POV.  I've been wrestling with that for the last month, and I've decided that I just can't do it without all sorts of artificial devices like unnecessary characters or unbelievable coincidences. Therefore, I think we need to leave Albus for a little while.  Never fear, we will get back to him.  But, after all, other people have monsters to deal with this summer.

Our first step in elucidating necessary plot points is below.  It is not a chapter as such but rather an Interlude in the action.  I hope you enjoy.  I have added a long author's note at the end discussing where things will go from here and trying to answer some of the questions people have brought up.

HERE BE MONSTERS, PART ONE: ALBUS

Interlude: Strange Cavalry

Friday, 5 July 1996

2147 GMT + 02 00 

"Dr. Mahalan!" The urgent voice cut through the third floor of the rambling building with practiced ease.  The speaker, a tall broad shouldered man with a neat sandy beard, stood at the head of the staircase and called again.  "Dr. Mahalan, you are being mirror called!"

One of the many doorways in the upstairs corridor opened to reveal a middle-aged, heavyset man with rapidly thinning hair and wide, pleasant features.  He was wearing green healer's robes with fluffy white slippers peaking from beneath the hem.  "Is it a red call, Kaarlo?" he asked wearily.

"No, Doctor," the large man paused, concern on his face at Mahalan's obvious fatigue.

"Go on, Kaarlo, you would not have disturbed me without good reason, I know."  The mind wizard smiled and Kaarlo felt a soft wave of comfort and relief flow over him.  Erkki Mahalan had that kind of effect on people.

"It is from Scotland, Doctor.  And it has Countess Streltsy's personal sigul."

Mahalan looked, if anything, even more weary.  "So soon?" he murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Just griping, Kaarlo.  I will come down at once."  Putting the book he was carrying on a nearby table, Mahalan hurried past the large man with a speed and agility surprising in one so portly.  Reaching the lower corridor of his combination clinic/home/research institute, he padded into his private office, a brightly-lit room done in cheerful yellows and soft blues.  With its many bookshelves and abundance of souvenirs it more closely resembled a scholar's study than the consulting chamber of a busy professional healer.  An arctic phoenix, its plumage sparkling with the colors of the Northern Lights, sat on a perch near a set of comfortable chairs and couches, one of which, by its size and placement, was obviously the doctor's.

A large, dark mirror took up a part of one wall to the side of Mahalan's overstuffed chair.  It was placed there so that the doctor's many patients could reach him if necessary.  As Kaarlo had said, the surface of the mirror presently glowed a pale yellow, indicating the message was important but not of life-and-death significance.  A small set of symbols in the upper right hand indicated the caller – none other than Elizaveta, the Countess Streltsy.  

The phoenix flew swiftly to Erkki's shoulder and whistled softly, its song the essence of clear, cold, fresh waters and bright blue skies.  "I know Vannomen," the healer said with a smile, "I will be all right."

Kaarlo backed out quietly.  On his way he almost bumped into a gray-clad house elf who shouldered past him into the room as if he were a negligible obstacle.  Kaarlo gave a small bow of respect as the elf turned to glare at him, one hand reaching up to steady the red hat that had almost been knocked off his rounded head.  The elf watched the door close silently, then turned to look at Mahalan's broad back.  His features momentarily drooped in sadness.  The phoenix turned its blue-plumed head and caught the elf's eye. Squaring his shoulders, he squeaked, "It won't go away if you ignore it, you know."

"I'm not ignoring it, Little Father.  I'm just wishing it could have been a little later."

"I know child," the elf walked up and threaded his hand into Mahalan's, giving the human's a gentle squeeze, "you are under no command."

"_Saunatundo,_" Mahalan looked down at the elf and smiled wearily, "you know better than that." 

"I'm not sure that I do." The elf frowned and fixed his gently glowing eyes on Erkki's wide face.  "You would do well to listen to your own counsel."  Vannomen whistled in agreement.

"So you have told me many times, Little Father.  But there is more at stake here.  You know that."

"Yes," the elf sighed, "that I do know." Vannomen's whistle turned slightly sad.

"Then if you will let me have my hand back, we will get to work." Mahalan grinned widely as he extracted his fingers from the elf's grasp.  Reaching into his robes he pulled out a long knife with a wide blade and an elaborately decorated hilt.  He waved the knife in the air in front of the mirror as if using its blade to push back a curtain and softly pronounced the activation incantation, "_Boasta."_

The glow brightened for a moment, then faded to reveal Elizaveta, the Countess Streltsy, standing in what appeared to be a rather ornate bedroom.  The view was slightly skewed, as she was no doubt using a hand-held version of the mirror.  

"Countess," Mahalan said, switching easily from Finnish to Bulgarian and smiling.  The elf had backed away to be out of view of the Countess' mirror.  Relations between a _saunatundo_ and his family were a sacred thing, not to be revealed lightly. "Where have your travels have taken you lately?"

"To Hogwarts, Doctor," Elizaveta replied in the same language, returning his smile.

"Most interesting.  What can I do for you?"

"I believe I may have a new patient for you, Dr. Mahalan."  Vannomen whistled a little irritably, and the Countess smiled again.  "Yes, and for you as well, Vannomen."

"In Scotland?"  His tone was not surprised, but accepting.

"No, well, possibly yes.  Your client would be Harry Potter."

The phoenix trilled softly, its eyes widening in a comic look of avian shock.

"I see."  Mahalan closed his eyes, as if suddenly overcome by a terrible weariness.  

"Is something wrong, Dr. Mahalan?" The Countess was obviously surprised and concerned.

"Just a little tired, that's all.  Why are you attempting to find psychiatric help for the Boy Who Lived?  And what type of help does he need?"

"I have not met him myself.  Part of this I have been told and part I have learned from ... unnamed sources ... and part I have deduced."

"Understood.  Please continue."

"It appears that Mr. Potter is reacting very badly to the stress of his life.  As you probably know..."

"I read the _Daily Prophet _every morning, Countess.  Between that and the _Wizarding Times_ out of New York I have kept up rather well with the situation.  Well, with public knowledge of it anyway."

"Then you can probably imagine..."

"That there would be severe problems, yes," the psychiatrist finished for her.  Vannomen nodded his majestic head vigorously.

"Albus Dumbledore is extremely concerned.  He feels that the mind healing circles in Britain might be compromised."

"Does he now?"

"I promised to contact you," the Countess said slowly, obviously surprised by the healer's reaction.  "I could not make any promises."

"Of course not, Countess."  Suddenly Mahalan smiled, and as always with his smile, things seemed instantly better.  "But I can.  Please inform Professor Dumbledore that we will come to Mr. Potter's aid at once.  I will leave as soon as I can make arrangements concerning my ongoing projects here, and of course for the care of my patients."

The Countess regarded him with a stunned expression.  "I am sure Professor Dumbledore will be overjoyed, Doctor."

"I will be satisfied if he just avoids arguing with me every ten minutes."

"I am not sure I can promise that, Doctor.  Professor Dumbledore is a very strong willed man."

"I would be amazed if he were not.  I will see you shortly Countess."

"Don't you want to know the rest of the details of the situation, Doctor?" The Countess looked uncharacteristically flustered.

"It is better to gather those details on site and in person, Countess.  It is an important part of the therapeutic process."

"Oh," the Countess smiled vaguely, "I see." She obviously saw no such thing.  "I will tell the Headmaster that the cavalry is on the way.  At least, I think that is the way they put it."

"Americans do, anyway.  I'm not sure about the British.  Until then."  He waved his blade and the mirror went blank.  For a moment he stared at the dark glass, then rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Aren't you being just a little dramatic?" the house elf commented.

"I suppose I am," the healer chuckled.  "And I tell my patients to avoid melodrama!"  Rising he lifted his magical sword and incanted "_Divga!"  _The blade of the sword vibrated, sending forth a clear bell-tone.  "Kaarlo, Juuho, to my office, please," he said in a normal voice, knowing his words were broadcast throughout the building.  "You have to admit, though, Little Father," he continued to the elf, "we are a very odd cavalry troop."

After only a few moments there was a soft knock at the door.  Kaarlo and Juuho, who greatly resembled his colleague except in the absence of a beard, entered respectfully.  "Doctor Mahalan," they intoned respectfully, "Vannomen," to the phoenix,  "Luonar," nodding to the house elf, 

"Gentlemen, we will be heading to Scotland as soon as appropriate arrangements can be made.  Kaarlo, please contact our usual sources and make arrangements for the care of our patients while we are away.  I also want you to put our research projects on hold so far as can be managed."

"Very good," Kaarlo replied.  A long veteran of Mahalan's hectic and dramatic schedule, he remained unruffled.  "How long of an absence should I plan for?"

"Indefinite."

"Are you sure, Doctor?" Kaarlo asked, slightly surprised.  "That might be difficult."

"Indefinite," Mahalan repeated flatly.  "This mission is our first priority until it is accomplished.  Our patient is Harry Potter."

There was a moment of stunned silence. "Very good, Doctor.  But it may take a few days to make the arrangements."

"Work as fast as you can.  Juuho," Erkki turned to the other large man, "we will need to be ready to deal with a severely depressed and possibly psychotic adolescent, male, age approximately sixteen, of the highest power magnitude.  I hope we will not find Mr. Potter quite so ill, but we had best prepare for the worst."

"Yes, Doctor.  Should we expect resistance on the part of the patient?"

"Almost certainly, I'm sorry to say." 

"What about violence?  Will it be necessary to restrain him?"

"God, I certainly hope not!" Mahalan replied fervently. 

"So do I, Doctor," Juuho continued in a professional tone, "nevertheless, given the possible danger involved, I think it best if we be ready to apply maximum restraint and sedation.  I think I should inquire immediately as to facilities available at Hogwarts for this purpose."

Mahalan came as close to a frown as anyone had ever seen him.  It wasn't really a frown so much as a tightening of his lips and a narrowing of his eyes.

"Very well," he said heavily, "do as you think best."  Juuho and Kaarlo had been his friends and assistants for many years.  It would be foolish to start double guessing them now.  

The two men nodded and started to leave.  "Wait!" Mahalan said suddenly.  Coming up to them, he placed one hand on each of their shoulders and looked at them soberly.

"I trust both of you with my life, you know that.  Please do not take what I am about to say as an insult."

"Of course not, Doctor," Juuho answered.

"Certainly not," Kaarlo agreed.

"If it should come to the worst, it will be imperative that we act as gently as possible with an absolute minimum of force.  The savior of the wizarding world may be coming to pieces, and it is an absolute necessity that we fix him, not crack him further."

Both men nodded their understanding.

"Besides," Mahalan grinned and the mood instantly lightened, "we will be at Hogwarts under the eye of Albus Dumbledore himself, who is almost assuredly going to have his long nose inserted into every aspect of the therapy.  Unless I miss my guess, if he hears so much as one unnecessary "Ouch" out of the Boy-Who-Lived we will all be trying to find a way home from the dark side of the moon."

All of them laughed softly, including Luonar the house elf.  The elf approached in the padding way of his kind and looked up at the faces of the assembled humans.  "I would be pleased," he said formally, "if Juuho would make arrangements for me to accompany you as well."

"Are you sure Little Father?" Mahalan asked in surprise.  "I was counting on you to stay here and see that things run well."

"Bah!  The other _tundo_ can deal with their jobs without me!  And I have never seen Scotland or Hogwarts."

"If you want, Little Father," Mahalan said.  "I would not deny you a vacation."

"VACATION!" The humans winced knowing Erkki had made a mistake. Vannomen fluttered and gave an avian grumble. "I will have you know, child, that I have never had a vacation and have no need for such a disgraceful thing!"

"Of course not, _saunatundo_," Erkki said formally, "please forgive your erring child."

"It is not to worry, child," Luonar immediately answered in gentle tones, "we of the _tundo_ often forget that our Tall Children have not our strength."

The humans wisely made no comment. Vannomen blinked but also wisely kept his beak tightly closed.

"Besides, I will not commit my child to the keeping of _British_ elves who knows how long!  I doubt there is a single competent _tundo_ at Hogwarts!" The elf's eyes flashed.  "I will not have you coming back skin and bones for us to have to fatten up again."

Mahalan, who, truth to tell, would not have minded losing a few pounds, suppressed a sigh.  "I would never dare stand against your wisdom, Little Father."

"You are learning child."  The elf patted Erkki's hand fondly.  "It's taken you forty-nine years, but you're finally learning!"

"I hope so, Little Father," Mahalan said, "for all our sakes, I hope so!"

A/N: This is a long one, and covers lots of issues.

First of all the sword Dr. Mahalan uses is the traditional power focus of Finnish sorcerers.  Also, he does not use Latin for his spells, but Saami, the language of Lapland.  Saami uses sounds not normal in English, so my spellings are only approximate at best.  The question of his sword, his spells, and relationship he has with the house elf Luonar will figure in upcoming chapters, and further explanations will be forthcoming.

Many people have remarked they find Albus somewhat maudlin and OOC in this fic.  I think a lot of that comes from the fact that we are hearing his thoughts.  Try going back and looking at what he actually says and does as opposed to what he thinks.  We are also seeing him when Harry isn't there.  Most students would be surprised (and horrified) to discover what their teachers are like when they aren't around.  Finally remember that this fic so far covers less than a week.  Sirius has been dead for only eleven days or so.  Albus is only just beginning to come out of the initial emotional trauma in the last chapter.

The same goes for Remus and the rest of the characters.  Some have remarked that everyone seems melodramatic (particularly considering that they are British).  I don't want to get into a discussion about national character here (mostly I don't believe in it, anyway).  But I will remind everyone that all of the emotional horror of OOTP is only eleven days in the past.  Ask yourself, if you had been a participant/witness to all of that, how would you be doing eleven days out?

Some people have asked with regard to the Thrall laws how the Ministry would know about the prophecy.  Good question.  Remus wonders the same thing.  Answers will be forthcoming.

Those of you from the challenge, I have not forgotten you.  The plot has gotten intricate, but we will be getting to your locations.

This chapter finishes up _Here be Monsters, Part One: Albus_.  Soon I will put up _Here be Monsters, Part Two: Remus_.  That will begin with the chapter "Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary" and continue onward from where Part One left off.  I've decided to leave Albus for a while because, as I said above, plot developments would be hard to follow if we remained with his POV for the near future.  Don't worry, we will get back to the Headmaster.

In particular this will allow us to spend more time with Harry.  The fact is that Albus is an extaordinarily busy and important man and, no matter how much he might love Harry, barring an emergency he can't put down his responsibilities to engage the boy deeply right now.  Be warned however.  As we discover exactly what has been done to Harry and what must be done to help him things will become _extremely _intense.  Many people in this universe are... not nice.  Harry has learned this, but some around him are about to be reminded of it through Harry's suffering.

The cavalry is on the way.  It will be needed desperately by the time it arrives.


End file.
